The Fantastic Horror of the Disembodied Gun
by Westron Wynde
Summary: A man is kidnapped one foggy night and Holmes and Watson find themselves on the trail of an invisible assailant. But soon the case takes on a sinister aspect when first Watson is kidnapped and then Holmes's life is threatened. Will they survive? COMPLETE!
1. Chapter One

******Sherlock Holmes, Dr Watson et al are the exceptional creations of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. This story is a work of fan fiction, written by a fan, for the pleasure of other fans and no harm is meant or intended by its creation.**

* * *

**_The Fantastic Horror of the Disembodied Gun_**

**Chapter One**

Glancing through the published accounts of those incidents which my friend Mr Sherlock Holmes investigated over the course of a long and varied career, I note that I have made a virtue of the fact that Holmes never undertook a case that did not tend towards the unusual or fantastic.

That he invariably robbed them of any sense of mystery and made the most bizarre of briefs decidedly commonplace is testament to those methods and the fierce application of deductive reasoning which has made his name famous throughout the length and breadth of this country and indeed far beyond these shores.

But if there is consolation in having a companion who, by process of logic alone, can dispel the dread produced by an imminent encounter with the Red Phantom of the Counterblasts or drive away the mists surrounding the strange appearances of the Werewolf of Hanging Sword Alley, then one must admit too that there is a price to pay. The world becomes devoid of romance, no bad thing according to Holmes, but to the average man, it is perhaps less desirable. A writer finds himself at a disadvantage, especially one who relies upon the extraordinary for his bread and cheese, for one cannot help feeling that men draped in sheets and a woman cavorting in a bearskin through central London have rather less appeal for the reader than their supernatural counterparts.

If such has often been my complaint, I found that the tables were turned upon me in the case of the Disembodied Gun, when a surfeit of the fantastic was to cause me more disturbance than any man rightly deserves. If I have been slow to chronicle the events of that night and the events that followed, it is from consideration of the reputations of those involved, none of whom, myself included, escaped unscathed. In our defence, I would ask the reader to judge us kindly, in the certain knowledge that, as improbable as it may seem, at the time impossibility had been all but vanquished.

So it was that on a dismal night in late December of 1899 I had forsaken my fireside chair and one of Clark Russell's fine sea stories to answer a call for assistance from a former patient. A thin rain was falling, enough to make the pavements shine with a coating of water that brought forth oaths from pedestrians and cab drivers alike as shoes and shod hooves slid on the glistening streets. The fog that had been rolling in from the river since late afternoon had thickened and tightened its grip upon the city, so that figures loomed out of the gloom as indistinct shapes seemingly evoked from the pages of a tale of creeping horror.

In that vein, it was, as the shilling shockers say, a dreadful night, one on which a God-fearing man might expect the worst horror to befall him. In my case, I would have settled for safe passage to and from my destination with my limbs intact and my chest free from the stifling fog. But for the urgent nature of the plea, from an ailing and elderly man who remembered my tenure at the Paddington practice more fondly than the current incumbent, I should not have ventured out at all. I had said as much to Holmes when he had left earlier to visit Scotland Yard to settle some trifling point concerning the butler's choice of headwear in the Salcombe Mercy theft. Had he seen me then, struggling along with all the trepidation of a man recovering from a serious injury, he would surely have told me to take my own advice.

As it happened, I made it safely to my patient and administered what little aid I could. The comfort took a good deal longer, so that it was nearly half past ten before I found myself heading back to Baker Street. The fog was worse and familiar noises, stifled by the shifting grey vapours, took on otherworldly qualities. Not so indistinct, however, that I was unable to recognise the sound of running footsteps coming up fast behind me.

Wondering what fool in his right mind would risk life and limb in such conditions, I moved well out of his way and waited for the fellow to emerge from the fog bank behind me. A moment later, a thin, breathless, red-faced figure trailing wisps of white hair and fog and clutching a medium-sized travelling bag to his chest as though his life depended upon it came into view. On seeing me, his course diverted and he came scurrying over.

"God be praised," said he. "I thought these streets abandoned. You must help me, sir!"

"Are you in trouble?" I asked uncertainly.

"My name is Professor Croxley," he panted, glancing nervously over his shoulder. "I have created a monster and now I am pursued!"

I sniffed tentatively to detect the odour of alcohol on the man's breath and became aware only of the smell of camphorated spirits.

"They would take it from me," he persisted. "But so deadly a thing must not fall into the wrong hands. I would rather destroy it than—"

He broke off suddenly. His eyes bulged as he turned his head in the direction in which he had come. He began to back away, gibbering like a mad man, his head shaking from side to side as a globule of saliva bubbled at the side of his gaping mouth.

"There!" he shrieked, pointing into the drifting bank of fog. "Do you see it?"

I saw nothing, save the pattern of swirls and eddies created by our movement in the grey wall. Professor Croxley meanwhile was flailing wildly as if attacked by a swarm of bees roused from their hive.

"Professor," I urged. "Calm yourself. We are alone. There's no one else here."

He stared at me as though I had lost my very mind and a thin, keening laughter escaped him. "Alone? Alone, you say? Would that it were so. But it's already too late. I am sorry. I should not have troubled you."

The watery blue eyes near started from their sockets as his gaze fixed upon something behind us.

"No!" he wailed. "Stay away from me!"

I made the fatal mistake of looking to where he insisted he saw his phantom. By the time I turned back, it was to find the Professor at the mercy of a revolver, aimed unswervingly at his head. But it was his assailant that most held my interest, or rather the lack of him. For the hand on the gun was invisible, as was the rest of the fellow.

Not so the voice, which spoke out of the thin, damp air in a low feral growl, like that of a savage canine given human form.

"Now, Professor," said the voice. "There was no need for you to go rushing off like that. You'd best come along quietly, for your own good. We've no need to involve anyone else."

The gun swivelled in my direction.

"You won't be giving us any trouble, will you, sir?" the voice warned.

"Who… what the devil are you?" I demanded.

A throaty chuckle echoed from the stillness. "I'm into business," said the voice. "Like minding my own, as you'd be best advised." The gun jerked. "Move, Professor. There's someone who'd like a word with you."

As if in answer to my unspoken question, the muffled sound of approaching hooves heralded the arrival of their conveyance and a large black horse in harness slowly materialised through the gloom. With the gun switching between the unfortunate man and me, there was little I could do as the Professor was forced backwards toward the carriage, where he was hauled into the interior. His assailant followed, the door slammed shut and the horse was rattled into motion.

Any thoughts I had about pursuing were firmly quashed by the appearance of the gun trained in my direction at the open carriage window. My last sight of the unfortunate Professor Croxley was of his anguished face pressed against the rear glass before the carriage was swallowed up by the fog.

* * *

_Kidnapped by an invisible man! What will Mr Holmes have to say about that?_

_Find out in Chapter Two!_


	2. Chapter Two

_Wow, guys, thanks for the kind words. And it's great to be back too. So, without further ado, on with the plot!_

**_The Fantastic Horror of the Disembodied Gun_**

**Chapter Two**

I hurried back to Baker Street to find the upper floors in darkness. For once, I was glad of Holmes's absence. I needed the solace of my own company and time to make sense of the strange events of the evening before sacrificing my self-respect to confide in him a tale that was likely to elicit ridicule.

I had toyed briefly with informing the local constabulary as to the kidnapping of Professor Croxley only to dismiss it on the basis that I was unlikely to be taken seriously. Constable Braithwaite, on fixed point duty on the corner of the Marylebone Road, was a fellow Holmes had referred to once in one of his more generous moments as positively bovine. Certainly one could almost imagine the cogs of his mind turning as he grappled with a problem and anything weightier than a missing dog was liable to send him into a paroxysm of indecision. He also lacked a sense of humour and, since I had no great desire to spend a night in the cells listening to the drunken chorus of the other incarcerated inebriates, I had decided to keep my counsel at least until I had a chance to lay the matter before Holmes.

My reasoning was that the worst he could was to laugh. At best he would offer some logical explanation for the whole affair and dispel my sense of unease. A man had been kidnapped, taken forcibly from the street, that much was certain. Whether I could believe my own eyes was another matter entirely.

The hazy glow from the fanlight, like the smouldering eye of a Cyclops come to rest in a quiet London thoroughfare, guided my key to the lock and I was pleased to shut the door on the foul night air. Upstairs the heat from the fire was stifling after the cold and the blood rose to my cheeks in protest. On any other day I may have paused to turn up the light and shed my coat. My immediate need, however, was for something to steady my nerves. As I was raising the glass to my lips, a voice spoke out of the darkness.

"A trying evening, Doctor?"

My immediate thought was that the invisible assailant had followed me home. The glass slithered from my fingers and shattered on the hearth, soaking my trouser leg into the bargain. My heart skipped a beat as the gas rose, seemingly by itself, then with the increased light, I saw, standing by the mantle, the familiar figure of Sherlock Holmes.

"Forgive me, Watson, I did not mean to startle you," said he.

"How long have you been there?" I demanded, an absurd question considering that he must have preceded me with time enough to don his dressing gown and fill his pipe. "Why the devil didn't you light the lamp?"

"Because, my dear fellow, I had the strongest possible reason for wishing a certain person to think that I was elsewhere when I was really here."

"The house is watched?"

"We have a sentinel who is on permanent watch."

I had not observed anyone outside, not surprisingly given the fog. "Who?"

"Mrs Hudson."

"Mrs—Holmes, do you mean to say you are in hiding from our landlady?"

"Quite so. We are locked in a battle of wills. She wishes my acquiescence on a certain matter and I will not give it. Neither do I wish to give offence. For that reason, it is better that I avoid crossing her path. Another few days, and the question that lies between us will cease to be of importance."

"Good heavens," I said. "What is the question?"

He dismissed my query with an airy gesture. "We are not discussing my domestic _contretemps_," said he. "Your behaviour when you entered a moment ago has more scope for interest. Something has occurred to break the usual pattern of your habits."

I stiffened. "What of my behaviour?"

"No light, no removal of your coat? That alone would be enough to diagnose that you are out of sorts. Then we have your singular demonstration of inattentiveness with the decanter. Are you aware that you poured yourself a glass of water and added the merest dash of brandy? You will find that the desired effect is achieved more rapidly if those amounts are reversed. Here, allow me."

I accepted the offered drink and took a long draught.

"Now, my dear fellow," said Holmes, settling himself in the chair opposite mine. "Perhaps you would be so good as to enlighten me as to the events that have ruffled your feathers. It is not a death; your manner indicates that your patient survived your ministrations, for you display agitation rather than the depression that I have noticed accompanies what you perceive as a failure on your part. Similarly, you have possession of your watch and chain. Therefore, you were not robbed. I should say you saw something which, though not touching upon you personally, has shaken your sensibilities. An act of violence in all probability and one which you were powerless to prevent."

"Why would you say that?"

"Because you are reticent. On any other occasion, you would have been eager to impart your news."

I finished my drink and felt better placed to share my strange tale. "As it happens, Holmes, you have hit upon the truth."

"Naturally."

"I was witness to a kidnapping. A man was snatched from the street right in front of me."

"Was he known to you?"

"No. He told me his name was Professor Croxley."

"He had time to introduce himself?" Holmes said, reaching across to take one of his bulging indexes from the shelf.

"Yes. He appealed to me to help him." When I paused, Holmes glanced across at me. His interest was piqued and I needed no spoken urging to continue. "He said he was pursued."

"Did he mention by whom?"

"A monster. Something he had created," I went on hurriedly when I saw Holmes's expression. "He said it was a deadly thing and he would rather destroy it than see it fall into the wrong hands."

"Indeed. Presumably then he was kidnapped at gunpoint."

"How did you know about the gun?"

Holmes smiled. "I know my Watson. But for the weapon, you would have sprung to this unfortunate fellow's assistance without a second thought. The men who abducted Professor Croxley, can you describe them?"

"One man…" I faltered and swallowed hard. "He had the gun."

"I was rather hoping for a physical description."

It was the point of no return. My admission was liable to produce either laughter or pity.

"I didn't see him."

"Come now, my dear fellow, you must have had a vague impression. What colour was his hair, for instance?"

"He didn't have any hair."

"Bald then."

"No. That is to say, I couldn't see his head."

"He wore a hat."

"He wore nothing. Rather, I cannot say for certain what he wore."

Holmes shut his book with something approaching exasperation. "I understand you have had a disturbing experience, Watson, but this procrastination is unlike you. Speak plainly."

"I cannot describe his appearance because I could not see him." I took a deep breath. "Holmes, he was invisible."

A long silence ensued in which I dared not look at my friend's face for fear of what I might find there. I deserved his scorn. I had destroyed my hard-earned credibility in one fell swoop and the contempt he must feel for me was nothing touching that which I felt for myself.

"I know it sounds incredible – why, I can scarce believe it myself – but that is what happened."

"I believe you."

I met his gaze and saw that he spoke the truth. "You do?"

"Had it been anyone else who told me they had seen an invisible man, or rather not seen him, which in retrospect seems to be something of an oxymoron, then I would have had cause for doubt. You are another matter. You say you have seen an invisible man, very well, I accept that that is what you believe. I do, however, reserve the right to form an alternative theory."

"I would be glad if you could."

"Tell me _exactly_ what you saw. Be precise as to details."

"All I saw was the gun. The man had it trained at the Professor's head."

"Distance?"

"No more than a foot away. I was as near to the Professor as I am to you."

"Then we may agree that the fellow was not simply hidden by the fog." Holmes considered. "What happened after the appearance of the gun?"

"Croxley was bundled into a carriage. Before you ask, it had no identifying marks."

"Leaving you behind as witness to these remarkable events."

"The invisible abductor told me to mind my own business."

"You heard his voice. That is interesting." The smile that twitched at the corner of his mouth seemed to indicate that he had already settled his mind upon the matter. "If my reaction was not what you expected, Watson, it is because I am in possession of certain facts regarding Professor Rowland Croxley. According to my cuttings, he held the Chair of Physics at one of our more prominent universities before stepping down three years ago after his theories met with derision. He was charged with bringing the university into disrepute because of it. If I tell you the title of his book was '_On the Refraction of Light and its Practical Uses in an Industrial Setting_' that may give you some indication of his field of study. In short, he posited that it was possible to create a more attractive environment by making the ugly face of industry disappear from sight."

"He was working on a theory of invisibility?" I said, aghast. "But surely that exists only in the pages of fiction."

"Normally I would agree," Holmes said thoughtfully. "Your experience suggests otherwise. It would appear Croxley has been successful in turning theory into fact." He pressed his fingertips together and closed his eyes. "Three years is a long time to pursue his research without the financial support of his former position. If he has had funding, we must assume that his initial theories were substantial enough to convince his current sponsors. Now, you may ask yourself, who would be most interested in securing a practical means of creating invisibility?"

"The criminal classes?" I suggested.

Holmes smiled grimly. "Had we been having this conversation ten years ago, the infamous figure of Professor Moriarty would have come to the fore. The notion would have appealed to his scientific imagination, to say nothing of his delusions of grandeur. Can such a thing be said of any of today's petty villains? They lack both inventiveness and patience. No, we must cast our net wider. If we examine the character of a scholarly and learned man like Rowland Croxley, we must ask ourselves to whom would he naturally turn?"

"Someone in his circle. Perhaps someone he knew from his college days."

"And where are they most likely to be found?"

"In government?"

"Indeed. It is there we should search for Croxley's employers. I have someone particular in mind to give us the _entrée_ we need." He paused as from downstairs there came the sound of an urgent knocking on the door. "If he has not pre-empted us already."

A moment later, Mrs Hudson entered, bearing a telegram. "Oh, Dr Watson, there's a—" Her gaze fell upon Holmes and her mouth set in a thin, determined line. "I didn't know you were back, Mr Holmes."

"I endeavoured not to disturb you," said he, taking the telegram from her and glancing over it.

"Well, Mr Holmes, now you're here, have you made up your mind yet? I need your answer. I can't put Mr Maitland off much longer."

"No, you shall have my decision in due course. But for the time being, duty calls. I am afraid I may not return until morning. Good evening, Mrs Hudson."

"Maitland," I said when Holmes had closed the door on the disgruntled woman. "I know that name. Isn't he the local poulterer? What decision does he need?"

"Nothing that need concern us for at present. This missive, on the other hand, confirms our theories concerning the Professor. Watson, I know the hour is late, but would you be so good as to accompany me to Whitehall? Your assistance would prove invaluable."

"Of course. By the way, who sent the telegram?"

Holmes grunted. "Mycroft, who else? _'Must see you over the disappearance of Rowland Croxley. Come at once.'_ Conclusive, wouldn't you say?"

* * *

_Is there really an invisible man on the loose? Whatever has happened to Professor Croxley? What will Mycroft have to say? And what decision is Mrs Hudson waiting on?_

_Find out more in Chapter Three!_


	3. Chapter Three

**_The Fantastic Horror of the Disembodied Gun_**

**Chapter Three**

"Of course Professor Croxley was working for us," said Mycroft Holmes. From behind the expanse of desk, he regarded his brother in the manner of a censorious headmaster. "Do you imagine that we would allow such a man to work for one of our foreign rivals?"

We had been summoned, not to the Diogenes Club as I had expected, but to Whitehall itself. Our cab had turned from the main thoroughfare down a side street into a quiet straw-encrusted mews, where Holmes led me to an inconspicuous-looking door in a darkened corner. A slovenly groom was lounging on an upturned truck and I should not have given the fellow another thought but for the manner in which he looked up at us when we approached. Holmes acknowledged him and, apparently satisfied, this impromptu guardian of the nation's security pulled his hat back over his eyes and returned to his slumbers.

Only once we were inside did Holmes explain that had the man we had encountered been doubtful of our credentials then our lives would have been swiftly terminated. This was my first realisation that all was not as it first might appear in the home of the British Government. The route we took, along painted corridors, down creaking flights of stairs and past innumerable closed doors, bore no relation to the exterior of the building. Indeed, I had the distinct impression that we were descending to some hellish underworld where the temperature was comfortably hot and the denizens never glimpsed natural daylight.

This was confirmed by my first sight of Mycroft Holmes's office, a dark, heavily wood-panelled room somewhere buried in the bowels of Whitehall, devoid of windows and extraneous comforts. Save for a portrait of Her Majesty on the opposite wall, the room was spartan and dominated by a bulky mahogany desk and the equally impressive figure of Mycroft Holmes himself.

"To lose Professor Croxley now would be to jeopardise a not inconsiderable investment on our part," he continued. "As for undermining our position in the current international climate, well, the least said about that the better. Croxley must be found."

"Note the language used, Watson, in this 'business of government'," Holmes remarked archly. "Lest we, the humble taxpayer, were ever to imagine it was a game these politicians played with our pounds, shillings and pence."

In the war between these two intellectual Colossi, I have always found it safer to say nothing and let the battle rage around me.

"I am disappointed that you find this situation amusing, Sherlock," replied his brother. "If not for this lamentable state of affairs, I should be in my own bed, not whiling away the small hours here."

"You mistake me, Mycroft. I do not find it the least bit amusing. A man's life may be at stake and you talk to me in terms of an 'investment'."

"Everything has a value."

"Even a life?"

"Even that. There's merry hell to pay at the Treasury if the books don't balance. Have you ever seen a government accountant riled, Dr Watson? Not a pretty sight, I assure you."

"How much is Croxley worth to you?"

Mycroft Holmes took a long, measured breath. "He was paid the going rate."

Holmes chuckled. "Ah, yes, the 'going rate', whatever that might be. Is that the same going rate you pay to luckless consulting detectives?"

"You have been suitably rewarded for your efforts, brother. I do not see that you have anything to complain about in terms of financial remuneration, to say nothing of the associated benefits."

"Recommendations I have in abundance. As for tie-pins – man cannot live by emeralds alone. I trust Croxley was better rewarded."

Mycroft Holmes kept his silence.

"Come now, Mycroft, you may as well tell me, especially as I have information to share about your vanishing physicist." Holmes's eyes twinkled as he spoke, knowing as he did that his lure would prove irresistible. "One good turn deserves another."

"Very well," his brother condescended. "But first I should explain the nature of Croxley's work."

"He was formulating a means by which to turn his theory of invisibility in a workable mechanism," said Holmes, much to his sibling's evident annoyance.

"Indeed," said Mycroft Holmes, struggling to contain his irritation. "It was meant to be a secret. However, since you know that much, you may also be aware that it was because of his research in the field of refracted light that he was forced to resign his Chair of Physics. After that, he came to us."

Holmes raised an eyebrow. "And you believed him?"

"Unlike you, brother, we are not permitted the luxury of allowing cynicism to distract us from our duty. Certainly I had my doubts. Croxley may well have been nothing more than another delusional scientist with another hare-brained invention. We see them all the time. Only last year we had a fellow who claimed he could fit any living creature with a set of gills. After the Home Secretary's wife's dog drowned demonstrating the device, it was decided that we should not pursue that particular avenue." He grimaced. "Our guiding principle, however, is that is better to be safe than sorry. We cannot gamble with the nation's security. Had Croxley taken his business elsewhere, we would have been left with egg on our faces." His gimlet eyes darkened beneath the sag of his brow. "And Croxley's device is not something we can afford any other country to possess. Nothing would be safe. We may as well throw open our doors and admit that we are defeated!"

"Good heavens," I allowed myself to breathe. "Is it as serious as that?"

"Indeed, Doctor," affirmed Mycroft Holmes. "The nation who possesses the secret of invisibility would have an unassailable advantage over all others. An invisible army would be of considerable benefit to us now, given the Boer question." A frown settled on his features. "It was with that in mind that Croxley was given an ultimatum four months ago: either to make good on his claims or to have his funding withdrawn. Last week, he contacted us to say that the device was near completion. There was one caveat, however: he needed a further £50,000."

I felt my jaw grow loose and with effort closed it again.

"I trust you asked for a receipt," said Holmes.

"Better than that, brother. A demonstration was arranged. A man was made to disappear before witnesses. He then held a conversation with them in his invisible state."

I glanced at Holmes, remembering my own experience, and he responded with a nod.

"Where did this demonstration take place?" asked Holmes.

"In Croxley's laboratory."

"What form does the device take?"

"I am told that one dons an invisibility generator, strapped to the back, which is activated inside a so-called an Invisibility Cabinet."

"The man chosen for the experiment, was he known to the Professor?"

"Major Marchmont is a close friend of the Prime Minister."

Holmes smiled. "That does not answer my question."

"The PM assures me he is beyond reproach."

"No one is beyond reproach where £50,000 is involved. He may have conspired with the Professor and the witnesses—"

"The PM was the witness and with his good lady wife," his brother interjected wearily. "I know what you are getting at, Sherlock, and you have said nothing that has not already crossed my mind. Because of the nature of the device, the utmost secrecy was exercised. It is true Marchmont did have prior contact with Croxley, but it was at the PM's urging. Croxley was a difficult man – well, you know the scientific mind. He had few interests outside his work, save one: lichenology."

I refrained from making a public spectacle of myself by asking the obvious question.

"Marchmont shared this interest, no doubt, in…" Holmes cast a quicksilver glance in my direction. "The botanical study of lichens."

"He had some rare specimens, picked up during his time in Australia," Mycroft Holmes affirmed. "The PM encouraged him to 'befriend' the Professor. To give him his credit, he did a sterling job. Croxley was easier to handle after that, though still a trifle eccentric in his ways. At the demonstration, he was all for the Prime Minister wearing the device and entering the Invisibility Cabinet himself."

"At which point, the dashing Major Marchmont intervened and took the Prime Minister's place." Holmes rubbed the bridge of his nose pensively. "Tell me, Mycroft, if Croxley had progressed thus far, why did he need the additional funds?"

"The device worked," explained Mycroft, "but for a limited time of ten minutes. He said he was researching a means of extending the lifespan of the portable generator. How could we refuse? He had the money." His jowls creased into an expression of distaste, as though a foul substance had entered his mouth. "But then the problems began. Croxley became erratic, said he was being watched. We gave him an extra guard, but his nervousness increased. It culminated in his disappearance in the early hours of this morning when his bed was found empty. The Invisibility Cabinet had been attacked with an axe and there were signs of a struggle. The portable generator was gone along with the Professor's research papers. We assumed that Croxley had taken them with him."

"Or that _somebody_ had taken them, along with Croxley," Holmes said.

"We thought as much until we received the first of Croxley's telegrams. He said he was being pursued and had fled with the device to prevent it from falling into enemy hands. We arranged to meet him and take him to a safe place. He failed to make the appointment. Twice more he contacted us and again we made arrangements to collect him. As before, he did not appear."

Mycroft took out his watch and consulted it. "It has now been three hours since we last heard from Croxley. He was to have been met at the parish church of St Marylebone at 11 o'clock. He did not make an appearance."

"That is because he was abducted half an hour earlier," Holmes informed him. "Dr Watson was a witness."

"Were you now?" Mycroft Holmes's sharp scrutiny turned to me. "Can you describe the men responsible?"

I gave him a brief account of the events of the evening. The more I revealed, the less astonished he appeared to be, as if elderly physicists being snatched from the streets of London by invisible men were an everyday occurrence. I dared not ask the reason for this seemingly blasé attitude, for Mycroft Holmes's manner forbade all but absolute compliance. But then I had underestimated that particular ability shared by the brothers for appearing to read a man's mind.

"You must forgive me if I do not seem unduly surprised by your experience, Doctor," he explained. "It is as we had feared. The likely sequence of events is that Croxley was taken in the night and compelled to reveal the secrets of his device. The invisible assailant is proof of that. We must then assume that Croxley managed to escape. He had time enough to destroy the Invisibility Cabinet and take his research papers with him. He has been at large ever since, seeking our help, and now his abductors have again caught up with him."

He leaned his arms on the desk and faced his brother across the desk. "Time is of the essence, Sherlock. It is imperative that you discover Croxley's whereabouts. Whoever has taken him has the means to create their own Invisibility Cabinet. We cannot allow another nation to hold us to ransom with that device."

"I am sure whoever has taken it feels the same way about our having it," Holmes remarked. "As for finding Croxley, I dare say he should turn up soon enough. It is the papers we need to recover."

"Why are we not looking for Croxley?" I asked.

The brothers exchanged glances before Holmes answered. "If they have his research papers, the Professor is superfluous to their needs."

"Do you mean to say they may have killed him?"

"He has already made a nuisance of himself by escaping their clutches once before. They cannot allow him to return to us and recreate his device. What advantage is there to them in keeping him alive?"

If I have accused my friend in the past of being a brain without a heart, it is at moments like these that I feel entirely justified in my assertion. The dispassionate way in which he spoke about the Professor's fate did not impress upon me the seriousness of the situation, but only increased my sense of self-recrimination that I had done nothing to help the man.

"The advantage," spoke up Mycroft, "is that Croxley did not write down all his findings. Knowledge of certain of the components exists only in his head. It was his insurance against our reneging on the deal."

"So, he did not trust you either. I do not blame him." Holmes's smile was something approaching a look of grim satisfaction. "Then there may be time. Was the Professor a man of strong character?"

"I should say he had a sense of the evil for which his device could be employed," I said. "He spoke of destroying it rather than letting it fall into the wrong hands."

Neither two men appeared to be convinced by my assertion.

"Persuasion can weaken the strongest resolve," Mycroft Holmes noted bleakly. "They will torture him to get what they want, you may be sure of that. You must find him, Sherlock, before he reveals what he knows. All those other trifles you busy yourself with must be put aside. Nothing matters more than this."

Holmes considered. "I shall need to see Croxley's original thesis."

Mycroft Holmes reached for the bell rope. When he tugged it, I heard no accompanying jangle of distant bells.

"This looks to be a long night," said Holmes, rising to his feet. "I suggest you return to Baker Street, Watson. I shall see you in the morning."

"Oughtn't we to search for Croxley?" I asked, joining him.

"Where do you propose we should begin?"

"With any foreign agents resident in London who may have an interest in acquiring the device."

Holmes smiled patiently. "From what Mycroft has told us, that list could be a lengthy one. You may be sure that the most prominent of those men are already under observation." Mycroft nodded to confirm this. "Go home, my dear fellow. You have had drama enough for one evening and we shall need our wits about us tomorrow."

With a promise to inform me the minute he had news, I was obliged to leave with the thin-faced man who had appeared in answer to the bell's summons. Our route back to the outside world was equally torturous and I emerged not into the mews as before, but in the cellar of a public house, where the atmosphere was rich with the smells of spilt beer, old wood and rank mould. The landlord affected disinterest in my sudden appearance from his back room, merely nodding to the door with a quick jerk of his head in a manner that advised I should not presume to linger.

The night was as foggy as ever and it took me some time before I discovered I was in Northumberland Avenue. I had hopes of finding a cab and headed in the direction of Trafalgar Square. At the other end of Whitehall, Big Ben tolled the muffled and solitary hour of one, the only sound in this seemingly forsaken city. With the cab rank deserted, I turned up my collar in anticipation of the long walk home. Then, to my cold ears, came the staccato drumbeat of approaching hoofbeats and my heart gladdened at the thought of a swift ride home.

I turned to hail the man. As I did, I caught a glimpse of a large body and unsmiling face before something hard came down on my head and I knew no more.

* * *

_First Professor Croxley, now Dr Watson. It's a busy night for kidnappings! But why has he been taken?_

_Find out in Chapter Four!_


	4. Chapter Four

**_The Fantastic Horror of the Disembodied Gun_**

**Chapter Four**

I awoke to the sound of hoof beats. No cabman's hack this time, but a spirited beast, wounded and angry, pounding his hooves on the inside of my skull as if to break through the very bone. A vengeful creature too, for the slightest exertion on my part was rewarded with the most exquisite of agonies coursing down the back of my neck and into my shoulders. I opened my eyes, doubtful of focus, and stared at a blurred, brown haze.

As my senses reasserted themselves, I found that my situation was not favourable. What I had taken to be my eyes playing tricks on me had a substance to it, of coarse, rough-woven cloth that scuffed against my cheek and smelled strongly of earthly and mouldering potatoes. I was restricted too, having been bound about the chest and wrists to what felt like a grandiose carver chair, with padded seat and arms and curving legs that rubbed my ankles.

Beyond my confines, there was a haze of light that invaded the sackcloth through minute holes in the weave. There were stronger scents too in that outside world, that of long stale tobacco, mingling with fainter, musty undertones and the smell that accumulates when too many people crowd an unventilated interior. Where I might be, I could not hazard a guess, except that it was some lofty space, for the footsteps I heard approaching had an echoing quality about them that resonated on distant walls.

Any further speculation was denied me, for the footsteps heralded my presentation to my captors. The sacking was wrenched from my face, and I was left blinking and wincing at the alarming glare of a series of lights set at floor level.

"You are Dr Watson?"

There were three of them. The speaker, the taller of the group, stood with his back to the light, his face in shade. The other two were ruffians, to judge by their short, stocky builds, uneven tailoring and scuffed shoes, which contrasted sharply with the pristine outline of their companion.

"That is my name, sir," I confirmed. "What is the meaning of this? Who the devil are you?"

"I am Mr Matthew," he replied. His voice was smooth, calming almost, the words unhurried and spoken with clipped precision. "These are my associates, Mr Mark and Mr Luke."

The use of the alias did not escape me. "Are we to expect 'Mr John'?"

From the slight expansion of the man's cheeks, I gathered that my comment had amused him. "That would be you, sir, Dr John Watson, presently of Baker Street, previously of Paddington, Kensington and Mortimer Street. Oh, yes," said he unctuously, "we know who you are. We also know you to be an intelligent and reasonable man. That is why we offer an appeal first to your good sense."

"If that were the case," I said, rather too hotly considering my unfavourable circumstances, "you would have made an appointment like any normal person."

Again, the smile in the darkness. "You must forgive us, Doctor. Unfortunately, time is not on our side. It was considered that you might be more amenable to our proposition if removed from other distractions. As your Dr Johnson said, nothing so concentrates the mind more than the knowledge that one is to be executed in the morning. Not that that is our intention," he added hastily. "I merely mention it so that you understand. You have simply to give us what we want and you shall be freed."

On that account, I had grave doubts. "What is it you want?"

"I want—" He let out a sudden exclamation and leapt forward, frantically patting at his tail coats. "You fools!" he roared, rounding on his associates. "Do you mean to incinerate me? Turn down those lights!"

One of the men scurried away and an instant later, we were plunged into darkness.

"Turn on the house lights, you wantwit!" came the indignant command.

The light rose and I found myself staring out at row upon row of red velvet seats, devoid of an audience, their plush cushions folded shut. Far beyond was a gallery and individual boxes, their exteriors heavily gilded to the point of bad taste, where plump cherubs struggled to take flight on meagre sparrow's wings and languorous nymphs seemed poised to fall from their precarious ledges at any moment.

I believe I am acquainted with the majority of London's theatres, but my surroundings were unfamiliar to me. Either I had been taken outside of the capital or by some unhappy chance my captors had stumbled upon the only location liable to confuse me as to my whereabouts. Not that it mattered at present; escape seemed but a distant prospect and my captors' intentions less than amiable.

It had not improved their mood that our positions of shade and light had been reversed. The dim overhead lights on the stage meant that now it was I who was left in shadow whilst the faces of the three men were in full view. I gathered from the oath that issued from their leader that this was something they had been eager to prevent. They had talked of releasing me; now I wondered whether, with the certainty of my identifying them, they would be willing to keep their word.

My chair was hauled backwards and turned, so that I faced an elaborate stage set resembling a rough-hewn wall with an ascending stairway and a door above. Behind a curtain had been painted to resemble mould-encrusted stonework, pierced with iron rings, from which dangled paper skeletons. It seemed apt, considering my situation, that I should have found myself in a painted dungeon.

If I saw parallels, however, my captors were less amused.

"Incompetents!" spat the now visible Mr Matthew. "Can you do nothing right? I give to you the simplest of tasks and still you fail. I see now why my predecessor wanted to be rid of you. Of all the places—"

The voice of the man as he continued his tirade did not match the face that I had conjured in my mind's eye. Close-cropped fair hair framed delicate, almost boyish features to which the addition of the straggling moustache and thin beard did not add the weight of years, but served only to emphasise the youth of the bearer. If his authority did not come from the advantage of maturity, I surmised it stemmed from his position, for one of his associates in particular cringed at his fury.

"It's the best I could do," whined the blubber-faced Mr Luke, his copious chins wobbling in agitation. "You didn't give me much time, Mr Matthew, sir. It is Christmas, you know."

"And what does that have to do with anything?"

"You don't know what it's like at this time of year, sir. There's not a room to be had in London tonight. Not even a doghouse, I'll wager."

Mr Matthew smiled sickly and shared a private joke with his other minion. "How very Biblical. We should look to the same source for your punishment, yes, Mr Luke?"

A sweaty sheen appeared on Luke's flaccid features. "Have a heart, Mr Matthew, sir. I done the best I could. We only got this gaff on account of my slipping the caretaker half a crown. Even then I had to promise we'd be out of here by six. That's when they start preparing for the matinee, you see."

"Then we do not have much time," Matthew declared, turning to me. "We are pressed, Dr Watson. It is now five minutes past two o'clock and we have until six. Four hours, sir, then we must depart. That is all you have to tell us what we want to know."

"Four hours or four years, sir, I shall tell you nothing," said I.

"For form's sake, I shall ask in any case." He paused for effect, his eyes never leaving mine. "You had a meeting with a scientist by the name of Professor Croxley earlier this evening. Do you not deny it?"

"I most certainly do deny it."

"Doctor, you were observed."

How that had been managed when the fog had reduced visibility to a matter of a few feet gave me pause. As Holmes was fond of reminding me, having eliminated the impossible, whatever remained must be the truth. Eliminating the possibility that we had been seen by someone at a distance, it seemed to me entirely probable that one of these men could have been the invisible assailant who took Professor Croxley away at gunpoint, while another had driven the waiting cab, hence their ability to identify me. I basked for the briefest of moments in the triumph of my deductions and resolved to say not another word.

"You had a meeting," Matthew continued, "during the course of which, Croxley gave something to you. What was it?"

Having made my resolution, it was against my principles to break it. There is something to said, however, for discretion. Clearly this gentleman had confused me with someone else, and it was in my power to set him right and thus set myself free.

"He gave me nothing," I stated. "We had no meeting. The man simply approached me in the street and appealed for my help."

"Ah, then you admit it. He gave you something for safe-keeping, yes?"

I shook my head. "You have been misinformed, sir."

Matthew's expression fell. "Be reasonable, Doctor. This need be but a simple transaction. You give us what the Professor gave to you, and we release you."

"Then we shall be here a long time," I returned. "Professor Croxley confided nothing to me, save that he was in danger. But you must know that, since you have the poor man."

I thought I detected a trace of uncertainty in the man's eyes. This I attributed to what Holmes had once called the meretricious effect of startling one's audience with the presentation of the conclusion of a logical train of inferences. It further occurred to me that I had perhaps overplayed my hand in revealing that I knew Matthew and his confederates to be the kidnappers.

"Croxley?" Matthew said slowly. "_We_ have him." His eyebrows rose. "As you say, Doctor, since we have that advantage, there is nothing to be gained by your reticence. Now, where is it? You were searched and it was not on your person. I trust that it is not at this moment in the hands of the British Government?"

The thrust of this conversation produced within me the perturbing thought that Professor Croxley had cast me in the role of cat's paw. I could imagine a situation where he had been pressed by these ruffians and in his desperation had stalled for time by creating the fiction that he had entrusted a vital element of his formula or device to my care. I could admire the man's ingenuity, but not the manner in which he had left me in awkward and hazardous circumstances.

"Well, Doctor?" Mr Matthew inquired.

"It is in the hands of the government," I said.

Holmes has denied my abilities in the past as a dissembler, but on this occasion I trust I did myself no injustice. Croxley had lied about my part in the evening's drama and it seemed entirely justified on my part to follow his excellent example.

"How do we know he's telling the truth?" The hitherto silent Mr Mark stepped forward as he spoke. "He could just be saying that, telling you what you want to hear."

"Yes, he could," agreed Matthew. "How do you suggest we test his verisimilitude?"

The leering fellow produced a knife and proceeded to test the point on his finger. A globule of blood appeared. He licked it away and then flashed a black-toothed smile in my direction. "The old fashioned way, Mr Matthew."

"We are not savages, Mr Mark."

"And we have to be out of here by six," said Mr Luke. "And we have to leave it clean."

Mark shrugged. "Put down a sheet. That'll keep the mess to a minimum."

"No, no, no!" said Mr Matthew forcefully. "We will have none of your crude ways here."

"Our last gaffer never minded. Partial to a bit of the red stuff, he was. A true gent."

"You would do well to remember he is no longer giving the orders. No, we will be civilised about this. Mr Luke, be so good as to fetch my bag." He adopted an apologetic expression. "I do regret that it has come to this, Doctor. I have great respect for the medical profession. What greater calling than to be in the service of humanity?"

"Yet you have no faith in my word."

"The saintliest of men might lie if it suited their purpose. I am duty-bound to be sure on that account." Luke returned with the bag, and from it he produced a bottle. "A twenty-year-old malt whisky. A treat and a rare one. You will join me, Doctor?"

I shook my head. A table was dragged over and placed beside my chair. A mug and a chipped tea cup were found amongst the caretaker's possessions and duly filled

"It is not drugged, if that is what concerns you. I would not adulterate so pure a pleasure with something so base." To prove his assertion, Matthew drained the tea cup and placed it down with a sigh of deep contentment. "Excellent. There has yet to be anything invented that betters a good malt. Now, Dr Watson, your turn," said he, pushing the mug in my direction. "If we untie your hand, will you drink? Oh, do not frown, sir. Drink you will, willingly..._ or by force_."

* * *

_Join him for a drink? What does that Mr Matthew have in mind?_

_Find out in Chapter Five!_


	5. Chapter Five

**_The Fantastic Horror of the Disembodied Gun_**

**Chapter Five**

The world can be an uncomfortable place for the man waking with the after-effects of a night of over-indulgence still weighing heavily on his conscience. There is little sympathy for one's sufferings. Doors are slammed, laughter is too loud and everyone feels the need to bawl at the tops of their voices.

I had no great desire to join this noisy, annoying throng, but my companion had other ideas. He had been there some time, keeping up a constant and annoying shaking of my shoulder and urging me to consciousness in voice strident enough to cause the pounding in my head to intensify with every syllable. Try as I might to deter him, whoever it was would not be denied.

Reluctantly and resentfully, I opened my eyes. When my vision cleared, I found Holmes at my bedside, a faint smile of amusement on his face.

"Good morning, Watson," said he. "Good of you to oblige us with your company."

"No need to shout," I replied, immediately regretting it, as my own voice seemed unduly loud in the confines of the room. "What do you want?" I said, moderating my tone to what felt like a reasonable volume. "Let me sleep."

"An excellent idea. But not here."

"Why? What's wrong with here?"

"Nothing," said he, "if you have no objection to the meagre comforts of a police cell."

"A police—" I sat up far too quickly and my head began to spin. "How did I get here?"

"I was hoping you could tell me."

I was about to shake my head and thought better of it. "I don't remember."

"Then I shall enlighten you. It is almost eleven now, and you were discovered six hours ago wandering the streets of Southwark in what the constable described delicately as 'an unfit state for a gentleman'. You were brought to the cells to sleep it off, whereupon you regaled all and sundry with several choruses of _'I'm Little Buttercup'_ before passing out. I received a wire an hour ago concerning your unhappy circumstances and came forthwith."

"Good of you to do so," I murmured.

"No, your gratitude must go to the local constabulary. You were recognised, which was all to the good as you had been relieved of your possessions at some point during the evening."

I patted my pockets where I kept my money and watch, only to find both missing. With it came a vague memory of a woman in a red dress with feathers in her hair. She had been standing by a lighted window whilst the heavy fog had swirled about her. I had been running, but from where or from whom was a stretch too far. I remembered the smile she had given me and her words, something about a glass of Christmas cheer and a warm room on a cold night. Beyond that, the memory faded, as the woman had done, taking my valuables with her.

"Come, old fellow, let us get you out of here," said Holmes. "Are you able to stand?"

It took the support of his arm and a good deal of determination on my part, but eventually I made it to my feet. After covering a distance of what felt to me like the best part of a mile, we came into the presence of the desk sergeant, a large, unsympathetic man with bristling whiskers and a pugnacious manner. I steadied myself against the desk and awaited his judgement.

"Well, well," said he, eyeing me unfavourably. "Feeling better, are we, sir?"

"Not particularly," I admitted.

"You were lucky Constable Mansfield found you, sir. Cold night it was last night and there's you sleeping in a doorway. There's many a man lost more than his good name and his wallet by over-indulging in the Devil's brew. You want to take more heed of the Good Book: 'Do not drink wine nor strong drink, thou, nor thy sons with thee, lest ye die.' Aye, there's many in these parts who've found that out the hard way. The harlots say they do their best business on nights like these."

"I am sure," said Holmes diplomatically, "that we may all learn something from this regretful experience. Now, if that is all…"

"Not quite." The sergeant cleared his throat with authority. "There's the matter of the charge. Drunk and disorderly. By rights, I should keep all prisoners in custody until the magistrate can see them. However, this being Christmas Eve, and Mr Godber our magistrate being a God-fearing man, the hearing will have to be adjourned till after Boxing Day. Looks like you'll be staying with us a few days more, sir."

He opened his charge book and licked the end of his pencil. Then, when I had visions of my morals being called into question in a public court of law and the resulting conviction hounding me the rest of my professional life, the sergeant paused.

"On the other hand, this is the season of goodwill," said he, "when we should remember those less fortunate than ourselves."

His gaze went pointedly to the collecting box for the Metropolitan and City Police Orphanage. Without hesitation, Holmes drew out a five pound note and placed it in the tin.

"A most worthy cause," said he.

"Very generous of you, sir," said the sergeant, smiling as he closed the charge book. "Compliments of the season to you both. Mind how you go. Oh, and Doctor, you might want to stay off the hard stuff next time."

With that our cue to leave, Holmes took my arm and we emerged from the gloom of the police station in the gloom of a winter day. The fog persisted, a melodramatic ghost with moist, thick vapours, black, choking and full of the foetid smells of river water and noxious industry. When a horse and cab materialised, we clambered inside and a moment later were rattling towards London Bridge to join the great throng of Londoners battling for space in the melee making its way north and south across the river.

"Remind me that I owe you five pounds," I said, as I nursed my aching head against the rolling of the cab and the oaths of pedestrians and cabmen alike.

Holmes shook his head. "Consider it courtesy of the Government. Having got you into this situation, it is the least they can do to extricate you from the hands of the law."

"Then you know what happened?"

"You still do not?"

"It is rather muddled."

"Well then, Watson, it is not difficult to say that you have ingested a good deal of alcohol. One does not require medical training to deduce that fact." A smile passed fleetingly across his features. "By the same method, it is also evident that the state in which you find yourself was not one of choice but was forced upon you. The impression of four fingers and a thumb upon your throat is not what one would expect to find after a convivial evening spent in the company of friends."

As I felt for the bruises on my neck, a wash of revulsion swept over me as a memory was conjured from the depths, of a hand, its grip tight on my throat, and the fiery passage of whisky down my gullet. Holmes continued, and I fancied with some relief that he had not noticed my reaction.

"I did not disallow the possibility that you met with an acquaintance after we parted," said he. "However, I have never known you to drink to excess or to slop what smells like a fine whisky down your shirt front. You are what I would describe as a careful drinker. That knowledge, and the abrasions I observe around your wrists where a rope has been fastened, led me to the conclusion that you were abducted and interrogated."

He read the question in my raised brow.

"_In vino veritas_," said he. "How true those words are. Alcohol may loosen a man's tongue more readily than physical coercion. When it is done with aged spirits, one may expect a degree of refinement not to be found amongst the lower ranks of the criminal fraternity. Their questions, I take it, concerned Professor Croxley?"

I nodded. Dislocated phrases and scenes were emerging from the alcohol-daze of the past few hours to haunt me. I related what I remembered of my surroundings and the three men before coming to their relentless pursuit of that single question to which I could give no answer.

"They believed that Croxley had given something to me," I said eventually.

"Did he?"

"No, there wasn't time. Scarcely had he told me his name than those blackguards bundled into a cab and took him away."

"You believe then that these men were responsible for Croxley's disappearance. If so, one of them must have played the part of the invisible assailant with the gun."

"They admitted as much when I confronted them. 'We _have_ him.' That's what their leader, Mr Matthew, said."

Holmes gave me a penetrating look. "Those were the exact words, spoken in that manner with the emphasis on 'have'? Be precise, Watson."

"As far as I remember. It might have been: '_We_ have him.' I don't see that it matters."

"Between what you see and what I see is a gulf of possibilities, my dear fellow. I assume you told them that Croxley had given you nothing. They did not believe you and resorted to your enforced inebriation to test the truth of your statement." He paused and when next he spoke, his voice had taken on a sombre edge. "I have some scruple about my next question. It is no slur upon you, my friend, and I would not ask were it not of vital importance. You do understand?"

"Of course. What is it?"

The gaze he had momentarily averted out of the window now came back to mine. "Were you released or did you escape by dint of your own ingenuity?"

I considered for a moment. Snatches of conversation drifted back to me, something about throwing the body in the river downstream. There had been a ride in a four-wheeler, a door to hand that I had flung open when the cab had slowed and the overwhelming urge to run and not look back. For once, the fog had evidently worked to my advantage and had shrouded me from my pursuers. I had lost them, and some time after had encountered the young lady who had whispered improper suggestions in my ear and helped herself to my pocket watch and money. According to what the desk sergeant had told me, I had then spent the rest of the night in a doorway before being rescued by Constable Mansfield and delivered to the Southwark police station.

"I escaped," I said finally. "I believe they meant to kill me."

The muted yellow flash of a lighted window as we swept westwards down the Strand briefly illuminated the gleam in his eye.

"As I suspected. Admirable, Watson, under the circumstances. These are dangerous men."

"I am more concerned for the welfare of Professor Croxley. He must have told them this story about giving me something for safe-keeping to buy himself time."

"I should not worry too much about the Professor," said he indifferently. "He is safe for the time being. I know where to find him when necessary."

"You know?" I said incredulously. "Then why leave him in their clutches?"

"Your concern does you credit. However, you have my word that he will come to no harm. Ah, here we are."

The cab came to a halt and I alighted to find myself outside the noble doors of that most peculiar of institutions, the Diogenes Club.

"You will spend the day here until I send for you," said he, as we entered the lobby. "The chairs are deep and the service impeccable."

"I would much rather my own bed," I protested.

"You cannot return to Baker Street. You have escaped them once, they may try again."

"Very well. Could you at least bring me a clean shirt?"

"I shall have the porter send for one."

"You aren't returning home, then?"

"There are other matters that demand my attention," said he in that manner beloved by small boys when seeking to evade a direct question.

"Nothing to do with your dispute with Mrs Hudson?"

Holmes made a dismissive gesture. "It is not a dispute. It is a battle of wills in which neither side is willing to capitulate. Tomorrow the matter will have ceased to be of importance."

"I'm glad to hear it. I should not like this situation to persist, whatever the cause."

"The neighbours are the cause," said Holmes. "Mrs Fenwick has a new lodger."

"At Number 227? I hadn't noticed."

"That does surprise me, considering how he parades up and down the street in an open-topped phaeton. This gives Mrs Fenwick an advantage over the other tenants, so I am led to believe. It grieves Mrs Hudson to have lost her exalted place in the Baker Street hierarchy and has retorted upon me to make amends. Thus we are all made to suffer for Mrs Fenwick and her social pretensions."

"Good heavens," said I, forgetting myself and laughing. "Does Mrs Hudson expect you to get a phaeton?"

"No." Holmes drew a long breath. "A turkey."

Again, I laughed and my headache throbbed in protest.

"The butcher has made it known that Mrs Fenwick has ordered a turkey this year and Mrs Hudson would prefer that we follow suit. I have thus far resisted. Goose we have had ever since our tenure began, and, by a little artfulness on my part, goose it will remain. You have no objections?"

The thought of food brought on a severe bout of biliousness on my part and it was to my relief when Jenkins, the Diogenes' venerable porter, intervened to inform Holmes that a telegram had arrived for him.

He read it and chuckled. "As I thought," said he, passing it to me.

" '_King Lear. A triumph'_," I read out. "What does it mean?"

"It means that an idea of mine has borne fruit. Rest well, my friend," said he, clasping my shoulder. "There shall be news before this day is out and I shall have need of you."

He left and I retired to take advantage of the club's facilities. By the time I awoke, what little light the day had afforded had fled. I took a light supper and waited. When news came, it was late, with the clock having chimed the quarter hour past eight.

"A message for you, Dr Watson," said Jenkins, handing me a light blue envelope with its neatly-printed inscription. "A boy brought it to the door not five minutes ago."

There were few words, but enough to cause a creeping sensation of horror to spread throughout my chest. One reading was enough, yet still I could not tear my eyes from the hateful sentiment contained therein.

"_We have Sherlock Holmes_," it read. "_Deliver unto us what Croxley gave to you at midnight under Blackfriars Bridge. Do not fail your friend, Dr Watson; his very life depends upon you._"

* * *

_**Oh, the unspeakable scoundrels! What will Watson do now?**_

_**Find out in Chapter Six!**_


	6. Chapter Six

**_The Fantastic Horror of the Disembodied Gun_**

**Chapter Six**

After leaving a message with the porter at the Diogenes Club that Mr Mycroft Holmes should contact me as a matter of some urgency, I resolved to return to Baker Street. It seemed to me that Holmes's fears for my safety had been unfounded. In a strange reversal of roles, his life was now threatened and only I could save him.

Yet the one thing they demanded in return for Holmes's release was the one thing I did not have. If I had cause to curse Professor Croxley before, I had reason enough now.

In the cloying chill of the yellow fog, the lights of Baker Street shone out as a welcome beacon. A wreath had been hung on the door, a fitting embellishment considering the sentence of death that hung over one of its residents. The ivy was drooping and thick with moisture, and the holly had impaled the limp red ribbon to leave it torn and shredded like the grisly entrails of some disembowelled creature. It brought to mind Matthew's thugs and their liking for violence. If I shuddered, it had less to do with the cold than the thought of what would happen to Holmes when I failed to deliver his ransom.

The fog followed me inside and was soon banished by the rich smells from the kitchen. Mrs Hudson was singing at her work as the Christmas pudding boiled merrily away on the stove, filling the house with steam so that every surface shone wetly with condensation. Faced with this scene of comforting domesticity, I could not help but experience a profound awareness of my own isolation.

If there had been a sense of resigned inevitability the first Christmas I had spent without my wife, this was different. In the world beyond our front door, it was Christmas Eve and people were gathering to celebrate with their families. Children had expectation of gifts on the morrow. Parents listened indulgently to the sprightly rendition of carols. To be in the midst of such joy yet to be faced with such a dilemma was something I should not have wished on my worst enemy.

The singing grew louder until Mrs Hudson appeared in the hall. Her apron was dappled with the flour, as were her glowing cheeks. She smiled, told me I had a visitor and promised to bring up mince pies and mulled wine.

"And you can tell Mr Holmes it's safe to come home now," was her parting shot. "Since he wouldn't give me an answer, I went ahead and put in the order with Mr Hedley. He brought the turkey round this afternoon, ugly-looking thing."

"Who, Mr Hedley?"

"No, bless you, Dr Watson, the turkey. You don't mind turkey meat, do you, sir?"

"No, Mrs Hudson, not at all."

"A good deal of fuss over nothing if you ask me," said she. "A bird is a bird when all's said and done. Still, I'll not have it said that this household can't afford a decent Christmas lunch. If that Mrs Fenwick thinks a turkey means she can give herself airs and graces, then she can think again!"

With that, she returned to her kitchen before I had had the opportunity to ask who was waiting for me upstairs. Under the circumstances, the prospect of having to entertain a guest was not an appealing one. I hoped whoever it was would be understanding when I asked them to leave.

It was with some relief that I found not a client but Inspector Lestrade. He had ensconced himself in the chair beside the blazing hearth and had taken the liberty of removing his shoes. The faint plume of steam that rose from his threadbare socks told me that he had not long finished for the evening. From the look of weariness on his face, I did not begrudge him the few comforts our rooms provided.

"Dr Watson," said he, near tipping his wet shoes into the fire as he rose to greet me. "A Merry Christmas to you. I hope you don't mind."

He gestured to the chair and the empty glass which now contained the last dregs of his brandy.

"Not, not at all. To tell the truth, I'm surprised to find you here, Lestrade, on Christmas Eve."

"I would have gone home," said he, settling himself in his chair once more. "The family's visiting, you see. What with Aunt Ethel and her bunions and Uncle Alfred and his stories about his time in the Crimea and Cousin Morris and his banjo… well, let's just say I won't be missed for an hour or so. Er, Mr Holmes not with you?"

"No," I replied. "He's… been detained."

"A case, is it?"

"Something like that."

"Ah, well, that's a shame because he'll be missing his share of this." From the pocket of his overcoat he produced a sizable bottle of malt whisky. "A present from my counterpart over Lewisham way. I did him a favour with a case this year and he's not the man to forget something like that. Well, Doctor, I'm sure you'll not say no."

"It's very kind, Lestrade, but no, thank you."

He glanced at me quizzically. "It's not like you to refuse a fine whisky. You haven't taken the blue ribbon, have you? This isn't the cheap stuff, you know."

Given that my headache had not long receded to bearable levels, I was not tempted to provoke it. "I dare say," I said, "but I'd rather not."

Lestrade stared at me for a long moment and then nodded, resigned to the task of drinking alone. "Very well. You won't mind if I do?"

"Please, be my guest."

As I divested myself of my outer garments, I heard the sound of liquid slopping into a glass and then a long sigh of contentment.

"Good stuff," said Lestrade appreciatively.

I had been glancing through my correspondence and, when I looked up, it was to find that he was watching me with some curiosity. I decided that it was better to disappoint him now rather than later, however uncharitable it might be to turn him on Christmas Eve when he had come bearing gifts. I needed time and space to think, and Lestrade and his whisky was an unfortunate distraction.

"Don't think me rude," I began.

"But you'd rather I go? No, no, it's all right, Dr Watson. I can see you've something on your mind, so I won't make a nuisance of myself. Mind you," said he, with what looked like a conspiratorial gleam in his eye, "I've always held that a problem shared is a problem halved. Not that you're the type to have a problem he couldn't handle on his own. No doubt it's a friend of yours that's found himself in a hole."

"Yes," I admitted weakly.

"I thought as much." He lowered himself back into his seat. "Friends have a penchant for getting into trouble. Is it anything I can help with?"

It occurred to me that there was a good deal of truth in what Lestrade had said. Holmes frequently poured scorn upon the wiry little detective, but there was much to be said in his favour. Even Lestrade's harshest critics would allow that he was a stout-heart with a good head on his shoulders. That he often set his sights on the wrong culprit or followed the evidence to an erroneous conclusion was not a failing exclusive to him, but was the common lot of those members of the human race not endowed with the unique insight of Sherlock Holmes. Certainly I needed advice, and as Holmes was not there, it was to Lestrade I turned.

"This friend," I began, "has recently found himself accused of possessing something of importance that certain parties would like to obtain from him. He has been threatened and demands have been made. This has now escalated to the extent that threats of violence have been made against an acquaintance of his if he fails to deliver this article to them."

"Then why doesn't he do so?"

"Because he doesn't have it. He never had it. He doesn't even know the item is."

Lestrade sat up. His expression was grave. "Something of a problem, Doctor, as you say. Has this friend of yours been to the police?"

"He cannot do so. It is a matter of some sensitivity."

"Blackmail?"

"Certainly not." I checked myself. "That is to say, no, Lestrade. Rather it concerns the security of the nation."

"Sounds like a case for Mr Holmes," said he, pouring himself another drink. He filled another glass and held it out for me. When I refused, he urged it on me. "Take it, Doctor. I've never seen anyone more in need of it. The last time I saw circles that black around a man's eyes was down at the morgue."

The smell was enough to turn my stomach. To be obliging, I took a drink. It was exceptionally fine as Lestrade had said, but I could not do it justice.

"Now," said Lestrade, "what about Mr Holmes?"

I shook my head. "Out of the question."

Lestrade considered. "How about that brother of his? He's something high and mighty in the government. I never did quite get to the bottom of what exactly it was he did. A jack of all trades, by all accounts." He chuckled and when I failed to respond, he grew serious again. "Well, Doctor?"

"I have been unable to contact him."

"Well, then, you—that is to say, your friend is in a pickle and no mistake."

I smiled at his error. Since it was so obvious, there seemed little point in denying it any longer. "No, Lestrade, you were right the first time. I can't go into the details, but I received this a little while ago."

I passed him the note. He read it quickly and whistled.

"Very formal, I must say. A funny turn of phrase about it too. '_Deliver unto us_' – it's the sort of thing you'd hear in Sunday school. Are you sure about this?"

"Yes. Their leader had a particular way of speaking, which led me to believe that English was not his mother tongue. He also said: '_As _your_ Dr Johnson said_.' The 'your' is superfluous if you are British."

"These would be the fellows who roughed you up."

I glanced at him in surprise. "How did you know?"

"You said yourself you'd been threatened. And there's some marks on your neck that don't look as though they've come from a sweetheart."

I adjusted my collar a little higher. "They mean to kill him, Lestrade, and they will. I can't give them what they want. I don't have it."

He pursed his lips and the slight narrowing of his eyes showed that he was giving the matter considerable thought. "What is this thing that's worth killing for?"

"I don't know."

"Didn't they say?"

I cast my mind back to the interrogation in the theatre. "Now you come to mention it, they were vague about it was. They never actually said what it was I was supposed to have been given."

"Perhaps they don't know what it is either. In which case your problems are over." He grinned. "You could give them anything and they wouldn't know any different."

As plans went, it sounded so brazenly simple that a child could have seen through it. And yet, the more I thought about it, the more merit it had. In the absence of any other scheme, it had to work. Holmes's life depended upon it.

"Glad to be of service," said Lestrade genially when I told him of my approval. "You know, Doctor, I was thinking – you shouldn't be wandering around Blackfriars alone this time of night." He finished the last of his drink and stood up decisively, tugging down his wrinkled waistcoat as he did so. "I should come with you, just to make sure there's no funny business."

"That's very good of you, Lestrade, but I couldn't keep you from your family on Christmas Eve."

"I'll send them a note and tell them it's a police matter. They'll understand. With any luck, we'll have Mr Holmes back before they get the goose on the table."

"I appreciate this," I said, shaking his hand. "And I hope you're right."

"I'd better be, Doctor," said he, grimacing. "If anything happens to Mr Holmes, he'll never let me live it down. He's just the type to come back as a ghost and haunt a man. He's bad enough now; imagine what a nuisance he'd make of himself dead!"

* * *

_Good old Lestrade! Sounds like an excellent plan. It couldn't possibly go wrong… or could it?_

_Find out in Chapter Seven!_


	7. Chapter Seven

**_The Fantastic Horror of the Disembodied Gun_**

**Chapter Seven**

A little before the appointed hour, our cab pulled up outside the Blackfriars Public House and refused to go any further.

"You're on foot from here, governor," the cabman called down. "I wouldn't hang about here if I was you, not if you want to see another Christmas. Unless of course you know what you're looking for," he added with a chuckle. "You'll find it all right down by the river. Just watch out for them sailors. They're none too choosy this time of year."

"Wait for us," I said, ignoring his salacious remarks. "We won't be long."

"What, me hang around here? You think I was born yesterday?"

So saying, he clicked his tongue and whipped up the horse.

"I should take his number," Lestrade said as the cab rattled away in the fog. "Insolent devil. Mind you, he's right about one thing. This area isn't good for the health. And that's aside from this damned fog." He tucked his scarf into his collar and shivered. "What's the time?"

"Ten to twelve. We're early."

"Better than being late. That a new watch, is it, Doctor?"

In the absence of my usual timepiece, I had had to rifle through my box to find the old watch of my younger years. It had been silvered at one time, but long use and the carelessness of a young man had left shiny areas of the brass base metal showing through. It wore its battle scars with pride: the chip to the enamelled dial where I had dropped it in the bath in haste to get to the first of many medical examinations; the love-token scratched in the back by a girl who had promised to wait for me while I was at war, now but a distant memory, and the dent to the cover where a dying man had struck out in his agony of delirium on a foreign field of battle and had knocked it from my pocket. We were old campaigners both, and the return to harness suited us well.

"No, Lestrade, an old one," I explained. "My other was stolen."

"The one your brother left you." His eyes twinkled in the dull light when I glanced at him. "We've all read _The Sign of Four_. I think there can't be a man in London who wouldn't know about your watch. Did you report it?"

Considering the circumstances of the theft, I had resigned myself to its loss. Doubtless rumours were already beginning to spread about a certain Dr Watson making merry in Southwark and I did not wish to stoke the fire further.

"I'll tell the lads in uniform to keep an eye out for it in any case," said Lestrade, blowing his nose into a copious handkerchief. "You are armed, aren't you, Doctor?"

"I thought Scotland Yard frowned on private citizens walking the streets of London with guns on their person?"

"Normally, yes, we do. But I don't fancy taking a walk down by the riverside with nothing but my wits for protection. If I'd known it was going to get lively, I'd have come prepared."

"Then, yes, I am. Aren't you?"

He sniffed. "Not tonight. The wife thought my old revolver looked dirty, so she gave it wash in the sink with the dishes. She was that pleased with herself that I didn't like to tell her she'd near ruined it. I'll have to have it seen to after Christmas. Couldn't shoot a hole in a rice pudding with it at the moment. Looks like I'll have to rely on this."

He drew a penknife from his pocket and turned it over several times in his hand.

"See that. It's got an attachment for removing stones from horses' hooves. You could do a bit of damage with that."

"Then let's pray we don't need it," I said.

We descended into a God-forsaken vision of wretchedness in the gaping arches of the bridge. A drunk staggered towards us, waving his gin bottle and singing an obscene version of '_The Holly and The Ivy_'. He appeared not to see us and wandered on his way, leaving a stench of cheap liquor. In his wake followed a thin dog that sniffed hopefully at our hands. When he discovered we had nothing to offer, he wandered on his way again. Huddled in the shadows, bundles of rags marked the sleeping places of the destitute. Here and there, a head bobbed up to take notice of our approach, whilst others slept on, uninterested or too dulled by the cold to care. As long as we did not interfere with them, then we were of no concern. If we had come looking for trouble, however, then they would make sure we had found it.

The longer we lingered, however, the more attention we earned ourselves. A group gathered around a meagre fire at the furthermost end of the arch began to stare and I heard drunken mumblings amidst the chorus of coughs and moans. I caught myself feeling for my weapon and I was glad I had had the foresight to bring it. Then, behind us, I heard the sound of footsteps and was suddenly aware of a presence. We turned to find a small whippet of a man with his hat pulled down and a scarf wrapped about his lower face.

"That must be him," whispered Lestrade. "Go on. Let's get this over with."

"I have what you want," I spoke up. "The envelope Professor Croxley gave me."

The figure did not move.

"Where is Mr Holmes?"

In reply, the man held out his hand.

"You may have it when we have Mr Holmes."

He twitched his fingers in a gesture that suggested I should be the first to comply.

It was not the way I should have conducted the business. The advantage lay on their side, not ours. What concerned me most of all was what would happen if they chanced to study what I was about give them. On Lestrade's suggestion, I had created a jumble of abstract numbers and letters to give the impression of a formula written in code. At the time, I had thought it appeared quite convincing. Now I was less sure.

"Not until I know he's safe."

There would be no negotiation on that point, or so I thought. Then the man drew a gun from his pocket and levelled it at our stomachs.

"You'd better give it to him, Doctor," Lestrade advised.

"I will have an assurance of Holmes's safety first," I said firmly.

"You'll get yourself shot behaving like that. Have you any idea how hard it is to find a doctor who'll come out on Christmas Eve?" He plucked the envelope from my hand. "Here, take your blasted letter," he called out to the man. "Just you remember, my lad, that you harm so much as one hair on Mr Holmes's head, you'll have the full force of Scotland Yard to deal with."

He approached warily, snatched the envelope from Lestrade and darted away.

"Right, after him!" exclaimed Lestrade. "We'll follow him back to his hideout and find out where he's holding Mr Holmes."

I caught at his arm. "I'll go. You aren't armed. He is."

"And let you go on your own? Come on, Doctor, he'll have got clean away by the time we've argued it out between ourselves."

We ran through the fog blindly in the direction the man had gone. The river lapped and gurgled unseen behind us we skirted the old church of St Benet's, following the sound of running footsteps up ahead, and along Queen Victoria Street. Finally, choked and wheezing, we staggered to a halt beside the iron railings of the ancient College of Arms.

"Lost him," muttered Lestrade. "Curse this fog! Well, there's nothing for it, Dr Watson. We'll have to split up. You carry on, I'll head up towards St Paul's."

"It's a warren around there," I replied. "He's probably gone to ground."

"I dare say he has," said the detective, pulling himself up to his full height. "But I'll not have those City of London boys say a Scotland Yard man lost his quarry on their patch. Keeping looking, Doctor, we'll find him."

We parted and I continued my journey up Peter's Hill. A few hundred yards along the road, I could hear nothing and see even less. In retrospect, it seemed foolish to have left Lestrade and concern drew me back. As I reached the corner where the gas lamp on the corner by the College of Arms daubed yellow patches on the swirling mists, the stillness was suddenly split by the sound of a gunshot.

My heart leapt and I was running before I knew what I was doing. The sound had been muffled and could have come from either direction, yet natural inclination took me along Knightrider Street and into the jumble of alleyways beyond. I called Lestrade's name and was met with silence. I ran again and finally came upon a figure making his way wearily along the pavement towards me.

"Lestrade, thank the high heavens," said I, when I saw that it was indeed he. "What happened? Did you find him?"

"Oh, I found him all right," said he indignantly. "I got him cornered and he goes and looses off a shot at me, blast his eyes. Look at that," said he, showing me a hole in the brim of his hat. "I don't know what the wife's going to say. That was a present from her mother."

I laughed in spite of myself, pleased that he had emerged from the experience unscathed.

"What now?" he said. "Will that paper you gave him stand up to close inspection?"

I shook my head. "Not if they give it to any scientist worth his salt."

"Then why the devil—?"

"I was hoping that Holmes would have been present at the exchange. I didn't expect… _this_."

"Well, we've got it, whatever it is." Lestrade sighed. "What an evening! One day we'll look back and all have a good laugh about it."

I wanted to say that I hoped that day would come, but I found that I could not muster any enthusiasm. At that moment, lost amidst the maze of buildings that rose in the manner of grey and red canyon walls about us, it seemed as though all hope had fled from the world and, like the sun, was a distant and forlorn memory.

"There's nothing we can do standing around here," said Lestrade, sniffing back a dewdrop that had appeared on the end of his red nose. "I propose we return to Baker Street. I don't see what else we can do now but wait for news. Mr Holmes is sure to turn up, one way or another."

One way – the best way, as far as we were concerned – was that Holmes had beaten us back to Marylebone and would be waiting for us on our return. I allowed myself to indulge in hope, that most precious of commodities, when I saw the light in the familiar window. I flew up the stairs as fast as my legs would carry me and flung open the door to the sitting room. The room was empty, the fire burned low and the lamp as I had left it, unextinguished in the haste of my departure.

I returned downstairs to inform Lestrade and then engaged in the usual tussle of consciences where he would insist that he should remain and I would have it that he was sent home to the bosom of his family without another moment's delay. I had kept him long enough, I said. His assistance had been appreciated, but now it was time for him to go, along with his damaged hat. He was clearly unhappy with the prospect, although he saw that nothing was to be gained by us both keeping vigil.

"I'll leave word down at the local nick," said he. "They'll let me know if there's any developments." He chose his words with care. "Not that I'm expecting any, mind," he added hurriedly. "In the meantime, if he turns up here…"

"You'll be the first to know."

"Good. And don't you worry about disturbing my Christmas lunch either. Frankly, it'll be a welcome change. What with Cousin Arthur who can't eat greens and the sister-in-law who wouldn't eat meat, it's always a trial getting them all around the table this time of year. Then there's Aunt Muriel. You ask me, that woman hasn't been right in the head since she came back from Cheltenham. I don't know what they did to her up there, but she hasn't stopped crying since. Well, good night, Dr Watson. Don't be a stranger."

"Nor you, Lestrade. And thank you, once again."

"My pleasure." He paused. "You know, Mr Holmes might be the bane of my professional life, but things would be a good deal duller around here without him. It seems as though you can't live with him, and you can't live without him none either." He forced a chuckled. "Well, when he does put in an appearance, you tell him from me that he spoilt a darned good whisky and he owes me a hat."

As he drove away in the cab, I began to wish that I had not been so insistent that he leave. All through the long night, I waited. Dawn came and still there was no word. My imagination had been able to conjure demons enough to torment a phalanx of saints, so that by morning I was feeling thoroughly wretched. I could not stomach the breakfast that Mrs Hudson brought and when she returned to find my plate untouched, she clicked her tongue in matronly fashion and reprimanded me.

"Now, Dr Watson, don't you go brooding about Mr Holmes. If he chooses to miss his Christmas lunch because of his silly insistence on goose, then so be it. We'll pay him no mind."

I had not the heart to tell her the real reason behind his absence.

"Now, I've got the bird on and a fine specimen it is too," she went on blithely. "I'm planning on lunch at one o'clock. Is that all right with you, Dr Watson?"

I said it was, although my mind was far from thoughts of turkey and the trimmings. Then, amidst the clatter of the breakfast things, came the sudden jangling of the bell. I was up and out of my chair and running for the door before it stopped. Lestrade was outside, his hand still raised to the bell, his face grim.

"You have news?" I asked.

He looked uncomfortable. "May I step inside a moment?"

I stood aside just as Mrs Hudson started down the stairs with a fully-laden tray. "Well, if it isn't that nice Mr Lestrade," said she, beaming rosily. "I hope you aren't neglecting that wife of yours."

"No, Mrs H, she's well, thanks for asking," said he, removing his hat.

"Will you be staying, Inspector?"

"No. I just wanted a word with Dr Watson." When she disappeared back into her kitchen, Lestrade lowered his voice. "I've had word, Doctor, from the Thames Division, over at Wapping. A body was pulled from the river about an hour ago. The Inspector in charge over there says… that is to say, he has reason to think it is Mr Holmes."

* * *

_Surely not! Has it all gone horribly wrong?_

_Find out in Chapter Eight!_


	8. Chapter Eight

**_The Fantastic Horror of the Disembodied Gun_**

**Chapter Eight**

On Christmas Day in the morning, I found myself in the graveyard of St George's-in-the-East, Shadwell, following the path towards the old mortuary that stood in the grounds of the church. A small, red-bricked building, gradually succumbing to the grip of the ivy that clung to its walls, it had seen its fair share of the human flotsam washed up on the banks of the Thames. Eleven years ago, it had been the temporary resting place for the body of the woman known as Elizabeth Stride in those dark days when Whitechapel had become the focus of the country's attention and the newspapers talked of little else save the crimes of 'Jack the Ripper'.

Nowadays, it was quieter, although the memories remained. I noticed Lestrade had to suppress a shiver as our guide, a coarse, ebullient man by the name of Inspector Reid, led us through the door and into the small reception area. I knew he had been drafted in to work on the case; what he had witnessed was something he never discussed.

"Well, gentleman, here we are," said Reid jovially. "This won't take long. Just a quick identification and you can be on your way. You did say you were the next of kin?"

"No, he has a brother," I said. "I have been unable to contact him. I, however, am intimately acquainted with Mr Holmes."

Reid nodded. "As long as it's all above board, you won't find me complaining. Although I should warn you, he ain't a pretty sight. Not been in the water long, mind, but the corpse was hit by a steamer and they do smash the face up something rotten. It happens some times with these drowning cases."

"You've established the cause of his death then?" asked Lestrade of his counterpart. We had struggled to make conversation on the journey from Baker Street, and this was the first full sentence I had heard him put together since we had left.

"We've had our best man working on it."

"And that's his report, is it?"

"No, Lestrade, that's my reckoning," said Reid with a degree of self-importance. "I've seen enough suicides in my time to know a drowning when I see one."

"This would not have been a suicide," I said.

"As you say, Doctor," he said, unconvincingly. "You don't know to look at a man what's going through his 'ead. Oh, we get a lot of 'em this time of year. Usually, they wash up nearer the Tower, but if you ask me those City boys push 'em back out into mid-stream so they don't have to fill out a report. To tell the truth, I wouldn't have bothered with this one had it not been for your enquiry about missing persons."

He paused outside a heavy oak door and knocked. A muffled voice sounded from inside. Reid turned the knob and entered.

"Morning to you, Dr Jorrocks," said he, brightly. "This is a rum do for Christmas Day."

"Is it?" replied the saturnine fellow. "I would have thought by now all that nonsense would have been over for another year."

"Pay no heed to Jorrocks," said Reid. "He's a regular Scrooge. Well, now, Doctor, yon fella not been giving you any trouble, I 'ope?"

Jorrocks, a dried-up little man with sparse hair, thick spectacles and a permanently down-turned twist to his mouth, scowled at him. "He's dead, Mr Reid. He's hardly likely to bother me, is he?"

Reid chuckled. "Just a bit of gallows' humour, Doctor. Is he respectable, only I've two gentleman here wanting to view the body. Well, I say gentleman," said he with a wink at Lestrade; "one of 'em's a copper from Scotland Yard, but I know you won't hold that against him."

Jorrocks pursed his lips, as though a bitter taste had filled his mouth, and cast a look of contempt at the burly Inspector.

"Come on now, let the dog see the rabbit," said Reid merrily. "I've got the missus waiting for me back home with my lunch so let's not be all day about it."

"I have always admired your dedication, Inspector," said Jorrocks scornfully. "You are a credit to your profession."

Reid was clearly a dull-witted fellow for he took this comment in the manner of a compliment. "Let it never be said that Inspector Reid let a good dinner stand in the way of his duty. Talking of dinner, gentlemen, I 'ope you haven't eaten. This sort of thing don't do much for the digestion."

The face, when the sheet was pulled back, was unrecognisable as that belonging to a human being. Part of the scalp had been torn away, leaving a gleaming hole where the skull had been crushed inwards onto the soft tissue of the brain within. I have seen many corpses in my time, many hideously disfigured, but none were quite as fearful to the eye as the torn and broken features of this man. The nose had been sliced away, leaving jagged shreds of skin that clung tenuously to what remained of the cheeks. One eye was missing, the other a gelatinous mess beneath what was left of the eyelid.

I drew a deep breath. "It isn't Mr Holmes."

"You sure?" demanded Reid. "He fits the description I was given. Six foot or so. Lean, dark-haired. Forty-odd."

"What's the matter with you, Reid?" said Lestrade. "This fellow is nothing like him."

"How would I know that? Down 'ere, Inspector, we don't have to rely on amateurs to solve our cases for us."

Lestrade snorted. "You just let killers walk the streets and get off scot-free."

"Before my time," said Reid. "Not our beat either. Mind you, had it been me on the case, I would've caught him, make no mistake. Time you Scotland Yard johnnies had got your act together, he'd done his cutting and moved on. If you ask me, he went abroad. America, I shouldn't wonder."

"Ah, I thought I recognised you," said Jorrocks, brightening at the memory. "We have met before, Inspector Lestrade. You were here in 1888 – the 'Autumn of Terror' as they called it. Let me see. Ah, yes, it was that prostitute who got herself murdered. Had her throat slashed as I recall. Nasty business."

"Not something I'm likely to forget," Lestrade replied, glancing at me. "Night of 30th September, Doctor, the double event. The first was found in Berner Street – 'Long Liz' as she was known to the folks around here. While we were occupied with her, he'd gone out and found himself another victim, Catherine Eddowes. What he'd done to her…" He stared at the corpse, suppressed a shudder and then covered the ruined face from sight. "I've seen a lot of death in my time, but they're the ones that stay with you, even after all these years."

"Well, what's past is past, no point dwelling on old failures," said Reid. "Now, about this gentleman on the slab. Would you care to take another look, Dr Watson?"

"It isn't Sherlock Holmes," I reiterated.

"People can make mistakes."

"Any schoolboy could tell you this isn't Mr Holmes," said Lestrade testily. "Six foot I said. Look at this man – he's five foot two at the most."

"It's hard to tell when they're lying down," said Reid defensively.

"And dark-haired? This fellow looks like he's a strawberry blond."

"His hair was darker when he came out of the water."

"Then there's what he's wearing. Look at these clothes – a black suit, brown overcoat, white shirt, socks, and collar, black necktie and Wellington boots. If you knew anything about Mr Holmes, Reid, you'd know he wouldn't be seen dead in Wellington boots. No wonder they put you in the river division; you certainly can't be trusted on dry land."

With that parting shot, he turned on his heel and left. I found him outside, his breath curling in the chill air and his expression tight. "Sorry about that," said he. "I can't stand that sort of unprofessional behaviour. Reflects badly on us all. Not only that, but he had me thinking there for a moment that Mr Holmes was… well, you know." He hesitated. "Where the devil is he, Dr Watson?"

I shook my head.

"Someone must know. At the moment, we don't know whether he's fish, fowl or… or…"

"Good red herring," I finished for him. "I may have an idea, Lestrade. I don't say it will come to anything, but—"

"It's better than nothing. Let's have it."

"When they questioned me, they held me in a theatre. I wondered if they mightn't have gone back there with Holmes."

"They do say, Doctor, that lightning doesn't strike twice in the same place," said Lestrade with a sigh. "However, in the absence of anything else, I say we're duty-bound to make enquiries."

"Isn't your wife expecting you home?"

He raised his eyebrows. "She was the one what insisted I go," said he. "Chaos it was when I left. The dog had had the dustbin over and the baby was asleep in the cat's basket. What with crying aunts and banjo-playing cousins, she said I was getting under her feet and told me not to return until I could be trusted not to make a nuisance of myself. Either that or one o'clock, whatever comes soonest. Now, this theatre?"

I smiled at his description of domestic life. "I don't know the name. I believe it was south of the river. The stage set was a dungeon, if that helps."

Lestrade frowned. "They're doing '_The Man in the Iron Mask_' over at the Peckham Playhouse. That might fit the bill. Funny place for a band of villains to hold up though."

"They said they had trouble finding other quarters."

"Then I suggest we take a trip down this theatre and find out what the stage doorkeeper knows. I dare say he won't take kindly to having his Christmas interrupted, but it's the common lot this year."

An hour or so later, we were in Peckham at a faded establishment that had seen better days. The doorkeeper, a large, surly man called Hoskins, took his time sorting through his bunch of keys and finally admitted us into the darkened interior. The gas was lit and the jets flared into life. On the stage I saw the familiar dungeon scene complete with its grisly embellishments and knew we had found our mark, but my hope that the kidnappers had returned to the location of my earlier questioning had faded.

"You're a bit out of it here, aren't you?" said Lestrade. "A playhouse like this I would have thought would have been running a pantomime this time of year, not this grim farrago."

Hoskins shrugged. "You'd want to speak to our new manager, Mr Gibbons, about that. Keen on this sort of thing, he is. Matter of fact, it's him what took the leading role."

"Ah, he's one of these new actor-manager sorts, is he?"

"He says we should be doing high-class drama." Again came the shrug, bored and non-committal. "We don't get much call for that sort of thing around here. The audience ain't been coming neither. Twenty-nine we had at yesterday's matinee, and most of them only came because it was warmer in here than it was out there."

"So you supplement your income by letting the theatre out to private citizens?" Lestrade probed. "Your Mr Gibbons know about your little sideline, does he?"

Hoskins' manner changed abruptly. "Now, see here, I don't make a habit of it."

"Then tell us what happened the other night."

"Not much to tell," said he, swallowing heavily. "There was this fella, see, a shabby sort, no gent like what usually comes here. He said he needed somewhere for the night for a bit of business. Well, we gets a lot like that. They comes here with their fancy women. Something about the theatre that gets 'em excited, I reckon. It ain't hurting no one. What's it to Mr Gibbons if I turns a blind eye and lets 'em get on with it?"

"That depends what they get up to while they're here," said Lestrade curtly. "Now, when it comes to kidnapping—"

"I don't know nothing 'bout that," said Hoskins. "All I knows is he gives me half a crown and I leaves the door unlocked for him. When I opened up next morning, he'd been as good as his word and left it clean, excepting an empty bottle of whisky he'd left in the dustbin."

"This bottle, did you keep it?"

He shook his head. "I handed it in with a load of others and got a florin for the lot."

"A pity," said Lestrade. "It might have told us the name of the supplier who sold it to him. All right, what was his name?"

"Didn't give me no name. None of 'em do."

"Most unsatisfactory," Lestrade grumbled when we were outside once more. "I've given him a warning, but that type never learn. I'll tell the Peckham boys to keep an eye on this place; with any luck, they'll catch him at it."

"Doesn't help us though," I said with rueful sigh. "They were careful."

"Careful, my foot. If you ask me, that Hoskins knows more than he's telling. We'll never get it out of him. I wouldn't be surprised if he's knows the cove he let the place out to and he's got a blackmail in mind."

"Why?"

"With all due respect to the good people of Peckham, this place is well off the beaten track. Why come here unless you know the doorman's not averse to taking a backhander? No, this fellow is local, mark my words. Problem is finding him on Christmas Day."

"What if he's found us?" I caught his arm and hurried him on. "Don't look now, Lestrade, but I believe we're being followed."

We had been making our way down the alleyway that ran parallel to the theatre when I fancied I heard the sound of footsteps behind us. As we rounded the corner, I pulled Lestrade to one side and together we waited for the unknown person to appear. I was beginning to wish I had come armed, and it was of little reassurance when I saw Lestrade take his trusty penknife from his pocket and pull open the thin blade he used for cutting fruit.

Something crunched in the alleyway, and we held our breath. The pause seemed to last an eternity. Then a voice spoke.

"Put down your weapons, gentleman. I have no wish to meet with an accident."

And, around the corner, stepped Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

_Well, we knew he couldn't really be dead, didn't we? But where has he been?_

_Find out in Chapter Nine!_


	9. Chapter Nine

**_The Fantastic Horror of the Disembodied Gun_**

**Chapter Nine**

So pleased was I to find Sherlock Holmes safe and well after my agonies of torment that I near shouted my joy for all the world to hear. Such a reaction, however, would have alarmed us both, not to mention the residents of the street, and therefore I settled for a hearty clap on his shoulder to reassure myself that he was not a ghost and a demand to know how long he had been at liberty.

"All in due course," said he, smiling. "You are inquisitive as ever, my friend."

"I think I'd like to know too, Mr Holmes," said Lestrade.

"And of course you shall. I have been exceedingly busy and I was obliged to abandon you to your own devices for far too long. Come, Watson, let us make amends over the Christmas repast. You too, Lestrade, your home and hearth are waiting."

"Now just wait one minute, Mr Holmes," said the Inspector, trying to resist these unsubtle attempts to deter his interest. "We had word that you'd been kidnapped by a gang who was threatening to deprive you of life and liberty if Dr Watson here didn't give them some whatnot he was alleged to have in his possession."

"Ah, that," mused Holmes. "Nothing more than a misunderstanding, I assure you."

"A misunderstanding?" Lestrade echoed. "You might put it like that."

"I do. It was an error for which I apologise most sincerely. I trust you were not too inconvenienced. Then let us not compound one mistake with another. I have two cabs waiting. I have directed one to deliver you to your front door, Lestrade, in time enough to join your family. The fare is paid – consider it a small token of my appreciation for the time you have expended on my behalf. Good day to you, Inspector, and compliments of the season."

"Yes, well, I suppose it'll have to do," said Lestrade, grudgingly as Holmes closed the cab doors on him. "I'll be seeing you, Dr Watson. I expect we'll get to the bottom of these goings-on one day."

Barely had the cab clattered away down the road than Holmes was urging me into the other waiting hansom.

"This is all very well," I said, "but I think you owe me an explanation."

He rapped his cane on the roof. "Pall Mall, cabby. You know the address."

"We aren't going home?"

"No," said he, releasing a long sigh as he settled into his seat. "It has been a busy morning, Watson, and I fear the day is not over yet. No rest for the wicked, my dear fellow." He smiled fleetingly. "We have work to do before we may say that we have earned our daily bread. Or, in this instance, turkey."

"You've been back to Baker Street, I see."

"I fear it was necessary. I had hoped to find you there, but instead I fell prey to Mrs Hudson's reprimands. She seems to be under the impression that I have been staying away deliberately. Would that last night I could have been in my own bed!"

"I imagine that being set upon my Mr Matthew's thugs was an unpleasant experience." The angry blush to his left cheekbone told its own story. "What did happen to you yesterday?"

A self-satisfied expression settled upon his features. "You surmise correctly, Watson. It took the better part of the day, for they were slow in rising to the bait. Nightfall came before they made their move. A scuffle was necessary to give the thing credibility. It is expected, after all. An effortless capture is as discouraging as the hardest fought battle. You may rest assured that we fairly traded blows," said he, chuckling as he made an airy gesture to his cheek. "I fancy they may be feeling the effects long after my bruises have faded."

"Do you mean to say," I interjected, "that you _wanted_ to be kidnapped?"

"Indeed, I anticipated it. In such cases, it is always better to be prepared. I gave them ample opportunities throughout the course of the day in the hope that we could be done with the business before the evening. But there, such things are sent to try our patience."

"But, Holmes, what was the purpose of the exercise?"

"It was for your benefit, my dear fellow. I am sorry to disappoint you, Watson, but you must rid yourself of the delusion that you made your escape that night. Anyone in your condition could not have eluded their captors with any degree of success. No, it was evident to me that you had been _allowed_ to escape. They did not believe your innocence in the affair, even after the application of alcohol to loosen your tongue. The expectation must have been that your next move would have been to secure the document or object that Croxley had entrusted to your care. Once they were sure you had it, you would have been the subject of further, possibly fatal, assaults on your person. I precluded that possibility by confining you to the Diogenes Club, thus forcing them to take the next logical course of action – threats of violence against one of your associates. Naturally, that would be me."

"Naturally," I said with a smile, which Holmes returned.

"Having gained access to the elusive Mr Matthew, I was able to explain the situation to him, and to hear his side of the tale. It may mollify you to know that he is genuinely contrite and hopes you will not press charges. I gave him your assurances on that point."

"You had no right to do so," I said, hotly.

"Under the circumstances, it would prove embarrassing to certain parties. The case would never reach court. You may depend on Mycroft to see to that."

"Then I am expected to do nothing?"

"I have suggested to Mr Matthew that some small reparation is in order."

"That is hardly sufficient, Holmes."

"You may change your mind once you have heard his part in this sorry tale."

"Which is? As I understand it, he has Professor Croxley in his power."

"He does not. You misunderstood him, Watson. His command of English as his second language is near flawless, but he has yet to master the subtle inflection that turns a statement into a question. What you heard as 'we _have_ him' should have been '_we_ have him?' You appreciate the difference, of course. He no more has Croxley than does the British government. Matthew's role has been one of observer. He had his own reasons for keeping the Professor under close watch. It was one of his men who followed Croxley that night, incompetently, since his presence was detected even with the assistance of the fog. Given subsequent events, you will understand why he sprang to the conclusion, erroneous though it proved, that the brief contact between Croxley and yourself was something more than happenstance."

What Holmes had said was impeccable in its logic, except for one detail. "If that is the case, then why did I receive a ransom note for your release?"

"Ah, yes. Mr Matthew was precipitous in sending that. As I could not attend personally, he assured me that you would be met at the appointed hour and satisfied as to my safety." His expression changed. "I must confess to being disappointed, Watson. I had thought you might at least turn up, considering the gravity of my situation."

"But I did, and Lestrade with me. I invented a document and gave it to the man. We then gave chase, but did not catch him. In fact, he shot at Lestrade and ruined his hat."

A smile slowly creased the corners of his mouth. Then Holmes threw back his head and laughed. "Dear me, this is a tangled web. Matthew's man was there at midnight, by which time according to your story you had already left. This other fellow I assume was early?"

"As a matter of fact, he was."

"Then you have given your carefully-crafted invention to one of Matthew's competitors. He had been ordered to follow you and must have realised the nature of your appointment. How his masters must have congratulated themselves on their good fortune! I daresay they are trying to make sense of it at this very moment."

"Do you mean to say—"

"Yes, Watson. There has not been one moment since your meeting with Croxley that you have not been followed. There are more players in this drama than Mycroft and Matthew alone." He sobered a little. "Which is why it is imperative that a conclusion is brought to these proceedings before there are fatal consequences."

With the usual throng of vehicles absent from the streets, we had made good time back to central London. On cue, our cab came to halt outside the Diogenes Club and Holmes sprang forth. There was a smell of cabbage and roasting potatoes about the place that made my stomach rumble and reminded me that I had missed breakfast. Assured that we would be home in time for Mrs Hudson's lunch, I dutifully followed Holmes up to the Stranger's Room. Mycroft Holmes was seated by the fire, a glass of sherry in his hand and a disgruntled expression on his face. He took in his brother's appearance with the air of a disapproving parent.

"Brawling again, Sherlock?" said he.

"In a good cause, I assure you," Holmes replied. "Has our guest arrived?"

Mycroft shook his head. "You are early, my dear boy. Some of us have better things to do than dance attendance on you. As for myself, I have been liberated from my desk and returned to my usual haunts because the Prime Minister commands it. He tells me that you have provided a satisfactory answer to the question of the disappearance of Professor Croxley and the missing invisibility device." He took a sip of his sherry. "You certainly took your time. I should have thought it obvious."

"There were complications. Both Dr Watson and myself have been subject to the attentions of your competitors."

"Well, I never. The blighters!" His eyes twinkled in my direction. "I trust you have not been too inconvenienced, Doctor."

"In the circumstances," said Holmes, "some recompense might be in order."

"Yes, yes," agreed his brother. "I'll see what we can do. Have a fancy for a knighthood, do you?"

Holmes snorted. "Mycroft! What the deuce good is a knighthood to a man without heirs? The only letters a man should have on his tombstone are those that he has earned himself by dint of his merit. Have you nothing better to offer than your usual stock-in-trade?"

"Ah, if you mean a holiday, Sherlock, why didn't you say so in the first place? This habit of yours of speaking in riddles has nothing to recommend it. Certainly, it can be arranged. Where would you care to go?"

I did not have the opportunity to reply, for there came a knock on the door and at Mycroft Holmes's call, the valet admitted a well-made man in his late forties. Clean-shaven and neat in dress and manners, there was something solid and reassuring about him as though the very essence of the nation's spirit had been distilled and embodied in one individual.

"Thank you for coming at such short notice, Major Marchmont," said Holmes. "My brother you know, and this is my friend and associate, Dr Watson. Won't you sit down?"

My first impression of the lichenologist and erstwhile friend of the elderly scientist was so akin to the image I had formed in my mind that I began to give myself airs that, like Holmes, I could recognise the type at a glance.

"You may have gathered the reason for this interview?"

"Naturally," said the Major with sincerity. "I was deeply shocked to hear of Croxley's disappearance. Has there been any news of the poor fellow?"

"None," I said, moved by his obvious concern.

"Nor is there likely to be," said Holmes. "Until you tell us, Major, where you buried his body?"

Marchmont let out a strangled cry. He staggered to his feet, knocking over the chair in his confusion. His eyes bulged, the veins stood out on his head and he nearly choked.

"Please, sir, don't be noisy," said Holmes, guiding him back to his chair. "You will have my brother barred from his own club if this behaviour continues. Watson, a brandy for the Major."

"How did you know?" he gasped.

Holmes smiled. "When a man disappears absolutely, he has either changed his identity and fled abroad or died. The former did not fit Croxley's character. It goes without saying that his death was not of your doing, since you had much to lose by his demise."

Marchmont gulped down the drink and calmed a little. "It was natural causes as you say, Mr Holmes. I found him slumped over his desk. He was never a well man. I believe it was a heart attack, brought on by overwork and excessive strain on his system."

"In that case, the proper thing to do would have been to inform his physician," said Mycroft.

"No, he could not do that," said Holmes. "There was the not inconsiderable matter of £50,000. With Croxley dead, the government would have demanded the return of their money. Where is it now?"

"Invested. In a South American goldmine." Marchmont fidgeted in his seat and appealed to Mycroft. "You will get it back. They assure me that the investment will pay off. It was only ever going to be a loan, you understand. They needed the capital in a hurry, otherwise another company would have taken over the claim."

"That remains to be seen," said he in low, measured tones. "In my experience, there is no such thing as a guaranteed return, especially where one has to part with such a large initial sum."

"To say nothing of the money extracted from certain other foreign interests," added Holmes. "Yes, Major Marchmont, we are well aware of the extent of your fraud. There are at least two other European governments who are under the impression that the invisibility device is theirs. How many others? My, sir, you will have some explaining to do. My advice, if you will take it, is to place yourself in my brother's power and confide in him absolutely for your own protection. These are unforgiving men, who will expect their pound of flesh and will have no scruple in taking it."

"As you say, Mr Holmes," said Marchmont. "Thank you. Would you help me again in explaining my case to the proper authorities?"

He shook his head. "It is of little concern to me what you did with the money. Heaven knows far greater sums have been wasted on unworthy causes in the past and will continue to be so in the future. What does concern me is that you involved Dr Watson in your mischief. You singled him out to lend credence to this nonsense about invisibility devices and in so doing endangered his life. Do not look to me for mercy. The season of goodwill it may be, but I find precious little sympathy for your plight."

His expression had been fierce and steely, but the cold light had dimmed from his eyes when he rose and gestured to me.

"Come, Doctor. We have wasted time enough. Good day to you, Mycroft."

"And to you, brother. Rest assured that we can take matters from here."

Holmes smiled. "I never doubted that for second."

* * *

_So now we know. Croxley dead and Marchmont made off with the money. But what about the invisibility? Still some questions to be answered, Mr Holmes!_

_Find out in Chapter Ten!_


	10. Chapter Ten

**_The Fantastic Horror of the Disembodied Gun_**

**Chapter Ten**

"It was evident to me from the first that a fraud had been perpetrated," Holmes explained as we sat together in the quiet aftermath of a languid Christmas afternoon. "That Croxley had actually devised a means of making a man invisible was improbable. You will note that I do not say _impossible_: the man who would make sweeping statements finds himself one day liable to fall foul of the march of science. In my youth, people doubted that man would fly, and today we find that certainty tested. In the case of the Professor, we find that even his colleagues questioned his findings. However, the witnesses to his 'experiment' had seen something, so I was mindful of the wisdom of Immanuel Kant: '_While one can be sceptical about any individual instance, the sum total presents a body of evidence that is difficult to ignore_'."

We were enjoying our port and ruminating over lunch, which had been adequate, through no fault of Mrs Hudson's I hasten to add. The turkey had failed to live up to expectations and had required liberal helpings of gravy to make the meat edible. Holmes had been gracious in his defeat and had made no criticism of the meal, although I fancied I saw a trace of displeasure pass across his features when Mrs Hudson had said that there was plenty left over and she hated to see good food go to waste. Foreseeing weeks of turkey sandwiches, turkey stews and turkey soup ahead, I resolved dine at my club as often as good manners would permit until supplies came to an end.

Until that moment, I had met with difficulty in trying to prise further details of the Croxley case out of Holmes. The combination of a heavy meal and a fine port had made him mellow and loquacious, however, and now I found him more than ready to answer all my questions.

"Where £50,000 is concerned, the first question one should always ask is '_qui bono_'? Professor Croxley, naturally, since he instigated the request. Or so Mycroft would have us believe. We have already been told that Croxley was a difficult man, more at home in the laboratory than government funding committees. Step forward the gallant Major Marchmont, who shared a most uncommon interest with the Professor. I have spoken to the Prime Minister and he was good enough to confirm my theory, that it was Marchmont who raised the question of additional funds on the Professor's behalf."

"But wait," said I. "The Professor must have been complicit in this deception. He arranged the demonstration of his invisibility device."

Holmes smiled. "Capital, Watson. We must prevail upon Mrs Hudson to prepare turkey more often if it produces this effect upon you. Of course the Professor knew. In his defence I should say that he was not the most willing of confederates. Most likely Marchmont cajoled him into agreeing by saying that it was the only way to guarantee the continuance of his research. How many times Marchmont had him do this for other interested parties, only he can now confirm. The strain of the deception told upon Croxley, however, and a few days after the 'demonstration' for the Prime Minister, he was dead."

"Are you quite sure that Marchmont had no hand in it? It seems to me that he had every reason to want Croxley out of the way."

"On the contrary, my dear fellow, he had every reason to keep Croxley _alive_. In due course, bills would have been produced, receipts fabricated, and the outlay would have been written off as legitimate government expenditure. The problem with investing in an individual is that once that person is no longer able to deliver a return, the investors are eager to recoup whatever money they can. From the moment, Marchmont found Croxley's corpse, he knew what danger he was in. His only chance was to play one party against the other."

"If it was believed Croxley had been kidnapped, all sides would have been suspicious of the other?"

"Quite so. No one would have ever believed that the opposition did not have him, nor could they afford to do so, considering the potential of the device at stake. Nothing could be left behind – the device, his paperwork – lest someone think to test his findings for themselves. There was always the chance that the question might arise as to whether Croxley had made off with the money and the device himself, which may have cast doubts on the man who was supposed to be his adviser and friend. Marchmont forestalled that possibility by arranging the sort of kidnapping one does not easily forget in the presence of a credible witness. That is where you came in, my dear Watson. It was not by chance that you were chosen. Marchmont was well placed to know Mycroft's position in Whitehall. As to our kinship and my association with you, so much he could have learnt from _The Strand Magazine_."

"And I did exactly what was expected of me. I came straight home and told you!" I sighed. "He must have been watching this place like a hawk, waiting for me to set foot outside."

"In a case like this, one leaves nothing to chance. That is the mark of the military mind, Watson, careful planning against all contingencies. It was no mere stroke of luck that you were called out that night; it may interest you to know that your malingering patient was visited by a purveyor of patent medicines, who convinced him that his end was nigh. You know the result of such meddling. Marchmont had only to wait for you to emerge from the house to begin his deception with the fog as his ally. He knew he was observed and no doubt led his shadow a merry dance through the streets until he was informed that his quarry was loose. I have no doubt that the driver of the cab into which Croxley was bundled was keeping your patient's house under observation. A word to Marchmont and the drama was set in motion."

"Croxley, you say," I queried. "But surely he was dead by then? I know it was not a ghost I saw that night."

Holmes laughed and reached for his commonplace book. "I took the liberty of finding a decent likeness of the Professor. You have never seen him of course. Tell me then, is this the man you saw that night?"

He held out a picture of an elderly, white-haired man with a thin hawk-like nose and bushy eyebrows.

"Well, it looks very much like the man I saw. I couldn't swear to it now of course."

"But why should the need arise? The man helpfully identified himself as Professor Croxley. Why should you have cause to doubt it?"

I began to understand what Holmes was saying. "Then you mean to say that the man I saw was—"

"An imposter. Indeed, it was the Major in disguise. No, do not look so surprised. Marchmont has quite a reputation in the field of amateur dramatics. You will recall the telegram I received. His King Lear is still remembered fondly by his fellow graduates. The part of course was that of…"

He looked to me for the answer.

"An old man."

"Quite so. A gifted fellow, our Major. He is not the first nor, I daresay, shall he be the last to use such talents for the purpose of criminal activities. It has long been my intention of writing a monograph on the connections between crime and the theatre. I never fail to think of Hamlet than I am reminded of Clarence Otterbland and the Staffordshire Bottom-Knockers. A remarkable case, noted for the inventive use of the Sagger-Makers' art."

"But, Holmes," I protested, "how does this explain the invisible assailant? From what you say, there was trickery involved, but I do not see how it was achieved."

Holmes gave me a look somewhere between pity and indulgence. "My dear fellow, is it possible that you still do not see how the thing was done? Well, then, let us consider the facts. What exactly did you see that night?"

"I saw nothing. The man was apparently invisible."

"That in itself is indicative. But come, Watson, you saw more than that."

"Ah, you mean the gun. Then that was real. If so, it must have been held by _someone_. I saw it move."

In answer, Holmes rose abruptly from his chair and disappeared into his room. A moment later he had returned, carrying in his arms a threadbare carpet bag that had seen better days. I expected some explain for his behaviour, but instead he nodded to the fire and suggested I stir the coals. No sooner had I taken up the poker than Holmes let out a startled cry. I turned back to him and saw to my horror that a pistol had appeared and was levelled a few inches from his chest over the top of the bag, apparently held by an invisible hand, exactly as on the night of the abduction.

I started forward only to be forestalled by Holmes' sudden laughter.

"A thousand apologies, my dear fellow," said he. "That was unconscionable. You know I can never resist a touch of the dramatic."

He had let the bag slip down his arm, revealing the hand he had thrust through the torn underside. I saw he held a thin sliver of bent wire painted black to prevent the gleam of light betraying the metal device. To this was attached the pistol, which Holmes obligingly swivelled back and forth in my direction.

"Now do you see, Watson?" said he. "All was in Marchmont's favour: the fog, the dark night, his audacity. To his _legerdemain_ I should add a talent for ventriloquism. I am not adept at the art myself, but for £50,000 I could be persuaded to learn."

He was still grinning, but I found no humour in the situation. When he saw my expression, he tempered his tone. "Come now, take heart. You yourself initially expressed disbelief in what you had seen."

"And you said you believed me," I accused.

"On the contrary, I said I believed that _you_ believed what you had seen. That is founded upon my utter faith in your veracity. If you told me that Mrs Hudson had been carried off by a herd of rampaging elephants, I would trust that you were telling me what you believed to be the honest truth as to what you had seen." Something of the smile returned to his lips. "Were that the case, however, I should be obliged to question that good sense for which you are renowned."

If there was a compliment buried within that statement, I was in no mood to delve for it. "You might have told me sooner, Holmes. I have been made to look most foolish, and before your brother too. Well," I said, sighing, "that at least is one consolation, that your brother was deceived also."

Holmes looked away and stared into the fire. A worse realisation slowly dawned upon me.

"He _did_ know?" I questioned.

"Of course he did, Watson. What he needed was proof, and one does not acquire that from the chair of a Whitehall office. For all his airs and graces, Mycroft is still a servant of the state. One does not simply approach the Prime Minister and tell him that he has been the victim of a grand deception, perpetrated by his close associate. Someone in Mycroft's position leaves that unpleasant task to younger brothers."

He retrieved his pipe and set a match to the wadded tobacco. "However, if it is consolation you require, consider the fact that you are amongst exulted company. Your encounter lasted a few minutes. Others sat in a darkened room and watched candlesticks and bottles dance on strings like a penny puppet show."

He drew reflectively and the blue vapours began to rise to the ceiling.

"I never feel more vindicated in my contempt for the political mind than when I learn it can be deceived by so poor a show. The Prime Minister, you understand, was at pains to assure me it was most convincing. That I may excuse by the same virtue that I have already expressed in regards to your good self, for he considered Marchmont a trusted friend and was ready to believe him. Once he learned the truth, however, his anger was implacable. There is nothing quite like betrayal to sharpen one's sense of indignation."

I could have answered with the accusation that Holmes would have done well to practice what he preached. If length of the offence came into the equation, then to lie for three years about one's survival should have earned greater censure than Marchmont's play-acting. I had been deceived then too, and it was only later when the joy of reconciliation had faded that I had seen the truth. He had not lied – the initial assumption of his death was mine – but he had not sought to correct my error either. Had it been an isolated incident, my indignation, like the Prime Minister's, would have been justified. But Holmes had lied by omission long enough for me to know that it was his way. Whatever the cause, there was always a reason, a greater goal in sight. He would have said that the ends justified the means, and perhaps he was right.

What I had never known, however, was whether he knew how great a toll those means extracted on those involved.

"It seems to me that the Prime Minister had a legitimate grievance," I said, testing the waters.

"On the contrary, it reveals a singular failing of character," Holmes returned. "Who is at greater fault? The one who deceives or the one who _allows_ himself to be deceived? If I read the man correctly, that is the source of his complaint. Nor do I absolve Marchmont. If one is to abuse a friendship, then it should be for the best of motives. Nothing so base as mere money. Which reminds me," he added before I had had time to fully digest his words, "a bottle of the finest malt was delivered for you this morning, a token gift from Mr Matthew with his apologies for the liberties taken with your time and person."

"A token indeed," I said with some bitterness. "It is galling that the man is to get away scot-free."

Holmes smiled. "Scotland Yard has a quaint expression for such occasions, namely that there is more than one way to skin a cat. Mr Matthew may have slipped our clutches, but I fancy another kind of justice may soon find him. You may be interested to learn that a letter detailing his failings will be delivered to the government he represents on the morrow." His eyes twinkled with mischief. "I may have given my word not to press charges, but I reserve the right to pursue my own course."

"From what they said of his predecessor," I noted soberly, "his punishment is likely to be severe."

Holmes gave a dismissive snort. "Do not waste your sympathy on the man. You can be sure that they would have made good on their threats of violence had I not brought this charade to an end. That you survived your night in Southwark is due to the timely intervention of the local constabulary."

"Survived perhaps," said I, "but not with my dignity or possessions intact."

"The restoration of your dignity is beyond my powers, but in the matter of your possessions…"

He took from his pocket an object familiar to my eyes and dangled it before me in the manner of those stage performers who seek to hypnotise a volunteer from the audience with a shiny bauble.

"Good heavens," I ejaculated, rising from my chair. "My watch! Wherever did you find it?"

Holmes chuckled. "Your account of my deductions based upon this time-piece has made this watch possibly the most famous of all in London. In this instance, its discovery was elementary. Criminals do not stray far from their territory. It was pawned as soon as the shop opened, and there it was seen by the sharp eyes of one of the Irregulars."

"I am immensely grateful," I said.

Holmes waved this aside. "My dear fellow, it was my failure to anticipate the eventuality that precipitated the crisis. Yes, it is rare that you hear me admit to such a fault, but in this case, I erred in underestimating Marchmont's avarice. By all accounts, he was a good man but flawed, as are we all. This is not the first time speculation has cost him dear. Mycroft has unearthed a report that he invested heavily in what amounted to a hunt for lost treasure during his time in India. Needless to say, the treasure-hunters took his money and were never seen again. This latest enterprise proves that he did not learn his lesson."

The mood had sobered and the evening, like the glowing sea-coals, was waning to its end. Holmes would no doubt call me a sentimentalist, but to end the day – and the case – on such a grim note did not seem in the spirit of the thing. With this in mind, I stirred the fire back to life, recharged our glasses and faced him with a challenge with which even he would struggle.

"There is one question you have not answered," I said. "What do we tell Lestrade?"

Behind his glass, Holmes smile. "That I leave to minds greater at invention than mine," said he. "I am but a humble detective. In that respect, I am rather limited. I can only uncover facts; I cannot create them. That is where the artist has the advantage over the scientist. Art can be created by one man alone. It is unique and unequivocal. Science is the refuge of the explorer, who has merely to make sense of the world before another discovers it before him. Watson, we are in your hands."

He raised his glass in salute, a gesture I returned.

"The only advice I can offer," said he, "for what it is worth, is that you should decide upon your story with some haste. We are about to be invaded, and by the Inspector himself no less. That step of his is most distinctive, especially today when the festivities have stilled our busy street into silence. Be kind with your tale, Watson, for his presence suggests that his day has not been a success. He seeks answers and solace. One day, perhaps you will be able to tell the truth of the disembodied gun, but for now fiction must suffice in the presence of good company and a good port." He sighed contentedly. "Well, I dare say there are worse ways to spend Christmas Day."

**The End**

_My thanks to everyone who has taken the time to read and review. Much appreciated!_

_

* * *

__**Sherlock Holmes, Dr Watson, et al are the creations are Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Characters and incidents mentioned in this work are entirely fictitious. This work of fan fiction has not been created for profit nor authorised by any official body.**_


End file.
